


la belle et la bête

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Angst with a Happy Ending, Belle!Alex, Curse Breaking, F/M, M/M, Multi, Mute!Thomas, True Love's Kiss, it makes me laugh, james is a damn candlestick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: One was punished for speaking out, so he was cursed to never utter a word again. The other was cursed with a mouth that ran too fast, too much, and got himself in more trouble than he would without it. The two forces collide, and they're racing against time to find out what to do with each other before it all goes to hell.(it's a beauty and the beast fic; now completed.)





	1. yrs for ever/the leading violin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Momma_Time](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momma_Time/gifts).



> here i am... at 6 in the morning... with a new work that's gonna take forever to finish...
> 
> this work has been gifted to Father_Time, as they suggested this fic to me and i thought it was brilliant! thank you so much, this one's for you darlin ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑) that being said, though, if you would like to request a fic or one-shot i would be happy to do it for you!
> 
> also, as a forewarning: i've only watched beauty and the beast once and that was on a vhs tape so you know it was like 1,000 years ago (COLLECTIVE GASP!) but i read a synopsis and put my own spin on it so that there's no beastiality but it's still sad! there are very MINOR depictions of violence and _i guess_ a character death, so that's why those are there, but don't worry homies

Mulligan huffed as he adjusted the sack of fabrics that was slung across his back. He brought it down, switched the hands that were holding it, and threw it to the other side of his back. In the crowd of bustling French jabbering in the narrow market place, he stuck out like a sore thumb; he was ridiculously tall, his shoulders broad and muscled. His clothes looked brighter than the rest of the crowd's dull clothing, and he walked with a stride that could only come so easily to a soldier. Notwithstanding the three next to him were similar in that case. Laurens, about a head shorter, was lean with very tall legs but still managed a perfect balance to achieve that soldier's march. He cracked his left knuckles, his right hand adorned with rings on some fingers. They were itching to sketch or paint or _something_ , not walk through a marketplace. He looked around the street and stopped with surprise as two children ran in front of them, yelling apologies and " _Excusez-moi_ " behind their shoulders. He made a mixture of a fond and angry face at their backs and fell back in line with his cohorts. An arm snaked around his shoulder. The marquis, or nobleman of France, silently looked around the crowd for anyone that needed his assistance. It was a force of habit more than anything. Laurens turned to the man and spoke his complaints, earning a slap to his shoulder and a reprimand. The Frenchman, named a name so long an American could faint trying to pronounce it in one breath, would like to be called Lafayette, which is where he hails from. Like a mixture of the two before, he was lean but muscled, and walked with a quavering limp that couldn't be seen if you weren't looking. He scoured the marketplace around him for some food; the people around were only selling trinkets or apples, and he couldn't be contented with such a small array of foods.

Then there was Hamilton. At best, he was dissatisfied: the marketplace was too dull, his fingers twirled a quill in his hand, a journal in the other, his feet were starting to ache with all of the steps he's taken, and Lafayette is starting to lean on Laurens to relieve pressure on his bad leg, signifying his pain. Finally, Lafayette started to swear, saying that he needed to sit down. Mulligan automatically went to his side, replacing Laurens, and sat down with him on a nearby bench. They all sat and conversed before a series of groans and grumbling whispers arose from the merchant's tent facing the bench. Two men, one looking royally smug, red cloak and all, and the other lanky and wobbly, but haughty all the same. The first snatched an apple from the cart and took a large bite out of it, earning an angry shout from the merchant. The four heard angry curses, as well as a sulking, “ _Damn British_ ” in French. The Englishmen, which already seemed to gather either distaste or hatred from the crowd, tutted a laugh.

“Well, I was just taking a taste-test. It was disgusting, anyway,” he shrugged, and all but the four men looked at him with confusion. He watched them all and laughed again, but louder and with more disdain. “What, can’t speak English? I don’t blame you, none of you can even _try_ to-”

“Well, do you know any French?” Hamilton found himself standing, his fists clenched. The man turned on his heel in surprise, eyebrows peaked and all.

“No, why would I want to-”

“Then how do you expect these people – which, if you haven’t noticed, live in _France_ – to know a language that they don’t need to know?”

“Hammy, relax,” Laurens said, tapping his leg with the back of his hand. “The guy’s going to pass out, he’s turning puce.”

Instead of answering the question, the man tilted his head to the side. “Where are you from? You don’t sound European.”

“I – we-” Hamilton gestured to his friends- “Are American, though Lafayette is French himself.”

“Oh-ho, another French-”

Lafayette gave him a cold glare. “I speak English too, you pompous ass.”

The Englishman paused before giving an ugly look. “Not very good, considering that thick accent.”

“ _Well_ ,” Lafayette corrected. “You mean, ‘Not very _well._ ’”

The British man’s henchman, who had been watching with discomfort, cracked an unconvincing smirk. “Why don’t you four just run along? We have more important things to worry about.”

The four men stood, the taller two easily towering over the two strangers. After a quick staring match, the loudmouthed one squeaked and gamboled down the street, quickly followed by the gangly one. After they left, there as silence, and rather than staying there the four of them left in the opposite direction towards where Lafayette was pointing using a small map. After a moment of banter between him and Mulligan, the four arrived at a small house; it wasn't too small, but it wasn't a mansion either. With a tired sigh, Laurens threw off his jacket on his bed and laid down on the bed, almost immediately groaning about his back. Mulligan dropped the sack of fabrics with a thud and looked around the house.

"Are you sure the house looked like this last night when we came in?" Mulligan looked at all of the paintings on the wall and the chairs on the table that looked dusty and old.

"Actually, no," Lafayette replied as he opened the pantry to get some food prepared. "There was some things in the attic that I brought down, like the chairs and what have you."

"Who lived here?" Laurens said as he looked up at the ceiling. There were tiny ornaments strung on the walls, saying things like _I love you grandmother_ and a name both scrawled in sloppy French. By the dedication, you could tell there was a lot of meaning to it.

"Me and my grandmother," Lafayette said almost proudly, but more with a twinge of hurt. "She did not want a large house for us, nor did she want me to grow up spoiled. So we bought this house for us."

"And these paintings?" Hamilton traced a finger on one of them entitled _La Bête_. "Who is The Beast?"

"It is this story for children," Lafayette said as he tried lighting a fire under the cooking pot with a spare candle. After no luck, he sighed and made grabbing hands towards Mulligan. "Darling, help me with his fire. But anyways, _La Bête_ is this legend of sorts about a boy who was exiled by an enchantress."

"I think I heard of it before," Laurens commented as he rolled on the bed so that he was on his stomach. "Is it about the prince that got turned into a frog?"

Lafayette looked at him expressionlessly. "No," he deadpanned, "That is _The Frog Prince._ "

"Tell us the story, then," Mulligan said as he began to pull out fabrics from the sack and sorted them out on his bed. "Since you left us all hanging."

Lafayette looked at him for a little while, lost in thought, before straightening his back and starting. "Well, about a decade ago, when I was younger, there was this story about a prince – or a little boy born into royalty – that was alone in his manor. On a stormy night, the boy heard a knock on the door. He opened it, and there was a beautiful girl about his age garmented with jewels and gold. She insisted that she needed to marry him. Instead, he only invited her out of the rain and gave her dinner. After they ate, she demanded that they be married. But the boy refused, saying that true love can never be forced. Enraged, the girl cursed him for speaking out against her, muting him for the rest of his life until he finally found his 'true love.' She also gave him a rose enclosed in a glass encasement, and when all of the petals wilted he will be stuck in the manor forever. Then, with a flash, she left and married another nobleman's son, and killed him for the entitlement of the land."

"That's terrible," Hamilton said somberly, taking out his journal and ink. Mulligan shook his head and took a drink of his flask.

"Anyways, the man is mute and is trapped in a manor that can never be found," Lafayette said dully, letting his wrist go limp as it held a wooden spoon. The soup began to bubble in the pot. And he turned back to stir and add seasonings. "Personally, I do not believe it. It is very tragic, however."

Laurens, who was gazing over at Mulligan, met Hamilton's eyes. "What about those asses at the marketplace? You'd think someone who is monolingual would have some respect for other people who are _also_ monolingual."

The four men conversed until the food was done and when it was, they ate. Laurens, Mulligan, and Lafayette laughed together as Laurens tried throwing chicken into Lafayette's mouth, which didn't end well. Mulligan looked at the two play fondly before looking over at Hamilton with a worried expression.

“What are you thinking about?” Mulligan nodded at him, gathering the attention of the two men playing with their food. Upon seeing where he was looking, Laurens and Lafayette looked at Hamilton with the same expression. Hamilton squirmed in his seat minutely and shrugged in what he hoped to be in a nonchalant manner.

“I don’t know really, just… If that boy really was cursed and locked away, that means that’s he’s still out there somewhere, right?”

“That is true,” Lafayette said a little sadly. “It is very disheartening.”

“I’m going to go write now,” said Hamilton, standing up and stretching, going to the desk that he picked out for himself to record his thoughts. “Tell me when it’s noon, I have to go out to get more parchment.”

Mulligan rolled his eyes, but promised that he’d remind him. Hamilton opened his moleskin journal and began to write, starting how he always does whenever he writes in this particular journal.

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_I fear I will dream of this_ bête _tonight. Is it fair, really to call him a beast? A boy whose only intention was to speak his mind, cursed to never utter a word and trapped in his own house alone, without his parents, even. Mother, how I long to be with him. I do not know this boy and, considering how long the legend is, he may be my own age. He may not be real, even then — and though Lafayette may protest I believe it to be true. But I know the pains of being alone, how it feels to know that nobody will be there to hold you. You left me like this, dearest, when you died. But I’m not like that anymore; I have Mulligan, Laurens, and Lafayette. They have each other and they have me. But that boy – how I long to know at least his name – has no Mulligan, Laurens, or Lafayette._

_Perhaps he may have a Hamilton._

_Yrs for Ever,_

_A. Hamilton_

 

After the letter, which he kept under his pillow, he moved on to writing about anything that came to mind before getting bored and gathering his things neatly, standing up and fixing his collar. He looked at the clock: it was almost noon. Without a word to his friends, he left the house and went back to the market to try to find some parchment. He passed the apple merchant, who gave him a thankful look. He stopped momentarily to get a green apple, giving the man extra money for his troubles. He also asked the man if he knew where any parchment was and the man pointed him down the street a little ways, then to turn right on the second street down. He thanked him and went that way, and just his luck: the Englishman was back. 

“Ah!” he lifted his arms as invitation of a hug, but when Hamilton gave him a glare he lowered one of his arms to shake his hand. Again, the Caribbean did nothing, only raising his chin and crossing his arms. The British man huffed indignantly and smacked his lips together.

“My name is George W. Frederick. And you are?” The pompous man even bowed minutely as he spoke, as if he were royalty.

“Hamilton,” he deadpanned.

Frederick laughed, his smile quickly turning to a desperate frown. “Surely you have a first name, right?”

“Hamilton.”

“Hamilton _what_?”

Hamilton only walked away, going to the merchant selling a stack of paper for 10 francs. He gave him the money and started walking back to the house when Frederick began walking next to him.

“I know your first name isn’t Hamilton,” was the first thing he said, “and maybe we got off on the wrong foot. What do you say you come back to the place where I’m staying at and we… have a little chat together?”

“No.”

“Not even for a little while?” He tried using a smile to convince him, but Hamilton wouldn’t even look him in the eye. “Come on, I can give you something you never even knew you wanted.”

“ _Fuck_ no.”

“What, is there something on my face?” Frederick was beginning to get angry. He grabbed Hamilton’s shoulder and pulled his roughly to face him. “Come to my place with me. Now.”

“Get the _fuck_ out of here!” Hamilton spat, giving him an incredulous and outraged look. “And leave me the hell alone! Find someone else to bother.”

“You-”

“Actually, I changed my mind. Stop bothering people in general. Go jack off in your room or something, _Frederick_.”

The Englishman, who has at this point _actually_ turned puce, spat on the ground near Hamilton’s feet and trudged away, turning at the closest street. Hamilton exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding in the first place and looked down the street that Frederick walked down; his head pounded and he felt dizzy. Turning his heel, he walked a couple of streets down and scaled a small hill until he finally went into the warm house. He leaned on the door when he closed and took deep breaths, shook his hands, and rolled his wrists. His eyes snapped open — he expected to see Mulligan on the table, putting down his needle and thread to console Hamilton, or Lafayette checking his head for fever, or even Laurens passively watching with hidden concern. But the house was empty, sans a note that was on the table that read, _We went off to get some lumber for the fire, be back soon!_ On the bottom was Lafayette’s neat script, Lauren’s tight loops, and Mulligan’s messy scrawl. Hamilton smiled and held the note to his chest, climbing into bed and scribbling more notes to his mother before falling asleep with ink stains on his fingers and his glasses still on.

 

* * *

 

Another day has passed by. The old clock whose tick echoes through the manor ticked 84,400 times, the bell that sounded every hour sounded 24 times. Another day has passed and Thomas is still alone. Scaling down the stairs that he has memorized so well that he could go down them blindfolded, he went into his room. In one swoop, he grabbed the candlestick that never ran out of wax or wick. Tracing the delicate calligraphy – _J. Madison_ – he stared at the golden candlestick until he got lightheaded and started to rock with unsteadiness and a bit of emotion. Moving down the hall, he opened the wide doors to the balcony of his room and looked out into the wilderness. Nobody could see him; he was so deep into the forest that nobody even bothered crossing the river or hiking the terrain to seek a lonely prince’s mansion. The wind blew across his cheek with a biting chill, and Thomas closed his eyes, feeling the wind blow his thick and coiling hair to the side and travel across his cheek and off the side of his nose. Opening his eyes again, he all but started at the smoke he saw in the middle of the woods. It must have been man-made; it was small compared to the towering trees near it. Panic flooded his chest at the thought of actually meeting another person in what was a decade or so, because then he’d resurface. He wouldn’t be a legend anymore that grandmothers would tell their children as a bedtime story, he’d be a person that they could poke and question, and the mere thought of that made him want to cry. Sure, he’s heard his own story. Once, out of sheer coincidence, a newspaper flew against his window. It was entitled, _The Accursed Aphasic: The Story of a Mute Prince._

 _Some story,_ Thomas thought cynically as he continued to stare at the smoke in the trees. Once his eyes got tired at staring at nothing he quickly turned and went back into the walls he was trapped in, closing the windows with a bitter slam. He started to sulk around his room, pacing a hole in the floor, until he picked up his violin and began to play. The bittersweet melody began to play from his wrist, he rocked with the pace of the music, his mind erupting in a symphony of pianos, brass instruments, and a bit of percussion. He so badly wishes he could have this symphony, even if it were just the violin and a piano, but alas: his _accursed_ body only came with two hands. The clock’s bell rang again and Thomas smiled softly as it seemed to flow with the music perfectly. He waited for the bell to finish its chime before starting the symphony, the violin leading it all almost like a voice.

An actual voice. How he longed to speak, or to at least hear another voice. He longed it more than anything after years of silence, of desolation, of loneliness.

Thomas’ thoughts began to swarm with memories of his father, his mother, and that wretched sorceress that made him suffer for all of these years. His heart panged and the notes of his violin began to slowly run off-tune until he was scratching the bow down with a screech and a tear streaking down his cheek. Thomas didn’t bother wiping the tear off — there was nobody that could see him cry, nobody to wipe the tears off his face and to tell him that he was going to be okay, he was going to find his true love soon enough-

True love. The thought almost made him laugh at this point. As a child, his father would tell him of how he and his mother met like it was a lullaby. In a way, it was for Thomas. He would crawl into bed and wonder, _when will I find my true love?_ Then the enchantress came and left with his voice, his parents, and his hope of ever finding that person ever again. Even his parent’s butler – James Madison – was punished. He was the only friend Thomas had; he was very young, maybe a couple of years older than Thomas, and he would play with him when his parents were away. He would untie his tie once the door closed and would bend down to Thomas’ height and ask, “Now, I wonder where your parents hid the sweets.” He’d treat him like a friend when his parents were too caught up in work to even notice him, let alone play with him. But he was turned into a damn _candlestick._ Thomas felt more tears fall and he stomped out of his room into James’ old room and curled into the bed, smelling the pillows that stopped smelling of James’ cologne after so many years of him being gone. He had to get his education all on his own, which wasn’t hard at first because James had tried to make sure that all of his textbooks were ready for all of his educational life, and the library was stocked with books that Thomas has yet to finish. A bittersweet feeling panged in his chest when he thought of how much James cared.

 _His true love better haul ass as quick as they can_ , Thomas thought. He raced back to his room and looked at the smoke rising against the sunset before going back to the room and falling asleep almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like this fic? be sure to check out Father_Time's [I'll Make a Man Out of You!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8044984/chapters/18427189)


	2. we left a note/it's you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thomas gets a visitor, and it's not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if the whole "alex not being in the chapter" thing throws you off a bit, but here's some tommy and some cute shit with laurens/mulligan/laf!!!! enjoy!!!!
> 
> it's so late while i'm posting this i'm gonna just paste it and edit it later peace y'all

“Why are we doing this?” Laurens asked with a purely resigned expression as he hauled a log behind Lafayette and Mulligan. The latter was doing fine with three or four, and Lafayette has only one because of his leg, but Laurens was smaller and – quite frankly – his arms were too _gangly_ for manual labor. Lafayette answered his question by lecturing about how it was much cheaper to get firewood oneself than to buy it, and his _grand-mére_ always made him gather firewood as a child to sell, which reminded him that they might need to gather extra to barter off-

“Well, don’t you think we went a little too far from the house?” Laurens interrupted, earning a soft glare. “Hammy might be waiting for us back at the house, he must be worried.”

“Why would he be,” Lafayette countered flippantly, “If we left a _note?_ ”

Mulligan looked behind his shoulder to look at Laurens and smiled. “Come in front of us, so you won’t stray too far.” Laurens puffed out air and walked faster to get in line with the other two, both of whom watched dotingly. Laurens studied the surrounding forest around them.

The sky was salmon-colored as the sun was beginning to set, and the trees around them looked almost dismal in comparison. The trees were very jagged in this part of the forest, it was almost comical the way they pointed down with the leaves sharp and narrow. They must be deep in the forest, he realizes, because even the thin leaves are starting to cover the sky. Something brushes against the leaves up the trail and he skims his eyes to the squirrel that is running from something in what looks to be fear. Then he looks to his left. Lafayette was starting to limp, but his face showed a stoic look that Laurens couldn’t help but admire. Lafayette caught his gaze and he blushed, silently cursing himself as he looked back on the ground. More silence, then an arm on his shoulder again. He knew that if he asked Lafayette about it later, he’d blame it on his leg, he always does. He decided to ignore it this time and instead tried to focus on how heavy the damn log was.

“Stop,” Mulligan orders quietly, holding his arm out to both stop them and as a protective stance. The two men stopped and looked at him confusedly. He had his brows furrowed, his eyes flickering from tree to tree. Then, “Run.”

“What?” Laurens and Lafayette said in almost-unison.

“I said, ‘ _Run!_ ’ Go!”

It all happened too fast; each second felt like a flash of a light. At first, they were confused and concerned. Then there were men in masks, with torches illuminating their grimaces and evil smirks as they tried prodding at the three with long knives. They were all shouting in French, saying something close to “ _Give us your francs or your life, choose one!_ ” Immediately, Mulligan stepped in front of Laurens and Lafayette, yelling for them to go without him. If they had the time, they would be in awe of his leadership, but there was none. Laurens went off behind Lafayette, and they got a little far before Lafayette tripped on a branch and hit his leg on the trunk that happened to materialize. By their terrible luck, it was his damaged leg. Wincing in pain, he gripped his leg and started to hyperventilate. Laurens started to panic, kneeling in front of him and waving his trembling hands uselessly. He looked over at Mulligan, who was trying to say that they had no money with them, but he was struggling; even from a distance, you could tell that he was getting frustrated. When one of them tried grabbing his arm, he wound his opposite fist back and punched the man square in the nose. Quickly, he took a step back and ran towards the two on the dirt.

“Mulligan!” Laurens called out, holding Lafayette in his arms. Seeing the issue almost right away, he bent down and, with one quick movement, carried Lafayette bridal-style and bolted with Laurens beside him. After a couple minutes of running, they found a clearing and a mansion in the middle of the woods. Laurens looked up in shock; he never imagined to be finding _this_ in the French countryside, let alone a _desolate forest_. Mulligan did the same, though he looked more concerned for Lafayette. Almost on instinct, Laurens hopped up the stairs and pounded on the door.

Behind the doors of the mansion, Thomas jumped so hard at the banging outside his house that he thought he was going to have a heart attack. Clutching his chest, he ran down the stairs and threw the door open, his chest tightening and pounding with panic and hope.

It was three men, which confused him, to say the least. The one who was knocking was flushed red with freckles smattering his face, neck, and just about every inch of skin. His baby hairs were matted with sweat and stuck to his forehead and his breath was frantic. The two men behind him weren’t looking too hot, either — the taller one was breathing heavily and the other wasn’t even walking, he looked pained and was gripping his calf like it was shot. He was so desperate to ask what was wrong, but the only thing he could physically do is open his mouth and give a questioning glance.

“ _Our friend is hurt_ ,” the first one gasped in messy French. “ _He has chronic pain in his leg and he fell on it, we need some help. He’s going into shock_.”

Wordlessly as always, Thomas moved from the door and held it open as the three entered. This made Thomas even more confused; who were these people? How did they find him or the house? Nevertheless, he went to the taller man holding the injured one and he beckoned for him to follow. Through the hallway around the corner of the bottom of the stairs, he led the three men to one of the guest rooms that looked like a master bedroom, it was so big. He pointed to the bed and motioned that he be laid down.

The shorter one asked tactlessly if he couldn’t talk. Even with his impeccable French, he could still spot that southernism he seemed to carry with him; he kind of acted the way his father did. He looked impassive at best, but his eyes were shining with concern for the one that was laying on the bed. Thomas only shook his head and vaguely motioned to his neck. Then, he took a deep breath. Climbing on top of the ridiculously tall bed, he began to take off the wounded man’s restrictive clothing, like his belt and ascot. This earned defensive actions from the bulkier man, but the tall and thin one held him back and whispered encouraging words for him to relax.

As he was making sure the man was going to be okay – tucking him under a silk blanket, motioning for the two men to hold his hand and reassure him that he’s fine – he couldn’t help but feel awkward. This is, after all, the first contact he’s made with any human being in a decade or so. But he figured that when the enchantress said, “ _You’ll never be able to leave until you find your,_ ‘ _true love_ ,’” that implied that the first person he would see was his soulmate, who would finally give him his voice back. Are these people his true loves? They can’t be: they’re all staring at another too tenderly to even think about Thomas at this point. Speaking of which, the injured one fell asleep, and the bigger one looked at Thomas.

“ _My name is Mulligan_ ,” he said, “ _and this is Laurens. Thank you for helping us_.”

Oh, how badly he wanted to reply back, converse, scream, _anything_ — but all he could do was nod his head and give a sort-of smile. The two looked confused, and a little offended that he wasn’t replying, and the smaller one – _Laurens_ , he reminded himself – subtly whispered to Mulligan that he wasn’t talking to them.

“Maybe he just can’t talk,” Mulligan ever-so keenly said back in English. They probably thought he couldn’t understand; they are in France, after all. “Like that story Lafayette told us.”

_Story?_ Thomas’s brow furrowed in confusion before he realized: _Oh, I’m the story. The fictional boy who went mute_. He nodded and shrugged. He left the room quietly, letting the two men be with their friend as he finally put himself to use and cooked them dinner. For this great occasion, he was going to make a meal his mother always made for him; she kept all of her recipes in a neat file near the pantry, and whenever Thomas was bored (which was very often) he would pull out a recipe by random and cook it, thinking of her when the steam would rise into the cool air. Pulling out a slip of paper from between his fingers, he read the card that he had so carefully memorized and began to prepare the meal. When all of the ingredients were in order and the water was slowly coming to a boil, he quickly slinked into the guest room to check on the three guests. Surprisingly, the two men seemed to have fallen asleep on the furniture beside the bed, Lauren’s head in the crook of Mulligan’s neck, and the two snoring softly.

“ _Where are we_ ,” said a murmured voice on the bed, “ _and who are you?_ ”

Thomas jumped at the sound of the injured man talking, and signed that he couldn’t talk again. He hit his index finger with his opposite, then stuck up three fingers and tapped the index finger on his chin. To make things clearer, he even mouthed, “ _Cannot talk_.”

“ _You cannot_ _talk?_ ” the man echoed, making sure he got it right. Thomas smiled and nodded, quite happy that he understood. The man gave him a distant look then looked down at where his friends were. “ _You still did not answer my question._ ”

Thomas racked his brain for an easy-to understand explanation, but he sighed in frustration and shrugged. The man shifted slightly under the blanket and tilted his chin towards Mulligan, silently asking to wake him up. Carefully and awkwardly, Thomas tapped on his shoulder until Mulligan stirred in his wake. Seeing Lafayette awake, he stood to go by him, causing Laurens to fall where Mulligan was and hitting the cushion with the side of his face, all without showing any signs of disturbance.

“Hercules, my dear,” Lafayette said as he came to his side, “Stop acting as if I am dying. I only fainted.”

Mulligan – or Hercules? – rolled his eyes. “We were worried sick, Lafayette.”

Thomas watched the two stare at another before he scoured for something on the tip of his tongue. What was he doing before this? Oh, right – he was cooking. He held up a finger and darted out of the door, though he was positive nobody saw him leave, anyways. Luckily, the water had just begun to boil and he put in the vegetables. Holding the spoon he used to stir, he rummaged through the spice cabinet and brought down an array of spices and seasonings. He jumped again for the third time that day when he heard a voice behind him ask, “ _What the hell is this place?_ ”

He turned with a disgruntled frown. Laurens had woken up, and was eyeing the kitchen as if he was looking for anything that looked like it could potentially mean harm to him. Thomas mouthed, “ _My house_ ,” because really, it was, and he didn’t feel like explaining the whole ordeal without having the means to efficiently communicate. And even if he could, he wouldn’t want to. _Yeah, I’m the boy from the stories your elders tell you; I’m looking for my true love, have you seen them?_ Truth be told, though, it would be easier.

“ _What are you making?_ ”

Adding the seasoning and stirring it in without a word, he brought the spoon up with the broth and handed it to Laurens, who sipped the broth with a tasteful hum. Nodding his head, he leaned on the countertop and began to ask him questions: his name, where he’s from (“Virginia, huh? My friend’s from there, too.”), and how the hell he got into France, among other things. When the food was ready, they both walked back to the guest room where Lafayette was sprung on the bed stretching his legs. Mulligan was sighing on the cushions with his head on his forehead and his elbows on his knees.

“ _Lafayette, you’re going to hurt yourself_ ,” was the first thing that Laurens said when he saw the sight, “ _Mulligan, why the hell aren’t you doing anything?_ ”

Mulligan looked truly tired as he said dejectedly, “ _I couldn’t stop him_ -”

“ _I am a war veteran who fought for_ your _country_ ,” Lafayette interrupted, bending his knee without an expression of pain or discomfort. “ _And I have a tolerance for pain. I expect we must be off by morning, we’ve extended and taken advantage of our stay at this fine gentleman’s house for too long. And our dearest Hamilton will worry, of course_.”

Laurens pulled a weird face before saying, “ _Thomas cooked for us, wouldn’t you like to stay a little longer until we’re all rested up?_ ”

Lafayette threw a grateful look to Thomas, who smiled widely. “ _Are you sure the food is the only reason you’re so adamant to stay?_ ”

“Nah,” Laurens replied in English, patting Thomas’ shoulder lightly, “Thomas is cool, too.”

The four ate, everyone (sans Thomas) was humming happily, adding their compliments to Thomas. They conversed for a while, and Thomas watched attentively as they slung insults with fond faces and laughed loudly with food in their mouths as they passed jokes around. Thomas, silently eating without a mess and wiping his mouth after every sip of water, secretly reveled in how free they were in their actions and thoughts; he could never even _try_ to say the things that they did, even if he could with a voice, and their outward expressionisms caroused the sociality within Thomas that had been hidden for so long.

“ _You know_ ,” Lafayette said to Thomas, sipping his wine, “ _You remind me of that story of the mute prince_.” Laurens giggled behind him and agreed, his face flushed with the alcohol he’d consumed earlier. Mulligan, on his fourth beer, nodded soberly.

“ _It makes_ sense _, doesn’t it?_ ” Lafayette laughed and threw his arms in the air joyfully. “ _Look at this place! We are in a palace! A wonderful palace that is empty… except for one mute, lonely, man_ …”

Lafayette lowered his arms, his laughter receded and his face full of drunken thought. Then, his face became alight again and he leaned past the table to cup Thomas’ cheeks, laughing again. Thomas smelled the wine dance from his lips and his eyes widened. He wasn’t scared of Lafayette, because he was giddy from the wine and was too excited to do anything potentially harming; it was what he knew that scared him.

“ _You are that prince, no? Tell me you are!_ ” Maybe it was that light in his eyes, or the fact that he thought he had no choice, but Thomas hesitantly nodded somberly. Lafayette shrieked, his hands shaking from excitement. “ _I cannot believe it! I didn’t believe it! But here you are!_ ”

“My God,” Laurens muttered, shaking his head, “How did drunk Laf figure that out and not me?”

Mulligan snorted, but looked mildly shocked all the same. “You’re drunk too, John.”

“Ooh, am I _John_ now?” Laurens purred, leaning on his hands. He blinked slowly, from either drunkenness or tiredness. “Are we on a first-name basis now?”

“Sure, if you can remember tomorrow morning,” Mulligan laughed.

“We must be going,” Laurens said with tinted cheeks.

The three left, each saying their goodbyes in their own way: Laurens with gratitude and respect, Mulligan thankfully with Lafayette in his arms, and the latter quite drunkenly. Thomas wanted to stop them in fear of Lafayette not being able to make it home, but Lafayette refuted it. “ _At least my leg will not hurt on the way_ ,” he said jovially, though his face showed nothing of it; he looked pained, though not in the physical sense. His face dropped further as he added, “ _Damn leg won’t be a problem now, I suppose_.” Mulligan shushed him with a solemn face as they left the house with the door closing softly behind them. Thomas frowned as the last glimpse he saw of his visitors was Laurens rushing to Lafayette with a sad smile and shaking hands. Then, he was alone again.

During the way back, Mulligan could remember a couple things. First, he remembered watching over his two friends – partners? – as they stumbled drunkenly across rocks and dirt. Then, as they were close to the house, he heard footsteps. He stopped and waited for the bandits to arrive and demand money again, but they never came. He continued on, both Laurens and Lafayette tiredly clinging to his arms.

Thomas hoped a few things as he watched his guests leave. He hoped that Lafayette wouldn’t get hurt again, that the three would figure out what the hell they were going to do with each other, and he would possibly find out who that Hamilton guy they talked so much about is. What he didn’t hope was that they didn’t go running and tell everyone who he was and where he was hiding, otherwise he might be in a predicament he would rather not be in. Sighing, he went up the stairs and into the room on the West Wing. Stepping into the dark room, his eyes fell to the wilting rose on the table, encased in a glass that was impossible to break — trust that he’s tried. He turned his chin up at the sight of it; it serves a blunt reminder as to why he was trapped here in the first place. There were petals fallen at the feet of the stem that compared to an hourglass. He was never told directly, but Thomas knew that once the last petal fell, he would never see his true love and he would never leave again. Though he would love to leave, never meeting his true love seemed like a worse punishment to him.

With a mix of sadness, bitterness, and fear, he watched another petal fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> po laf lmoa if you find any errors ignoer them or remind me later because i'm trying to catch some z's


	3. ego and ignorance/compose yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another visitor, but in a different pretense than the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt like the last chapter was well-done and was essential to the plot buuut.... i miss alex so here he is! this chapter felt mediocre at best but i still hope you enjoy it! i'm trying to move things a little slower this time around
> 
> i didn't miss king ass tho but he's still here (hopefully not anymore)

Hamilton groaned and looked up at the sky as he met eyes with the dolt Englishman on the streets as he tried bartering with a man selling quill ink. As the angry and petulant man trudged towards him, Hamilton told the trader coolly that he would be back shorty and to not leave. He thought that if he turned to the opposite direction as him and made no eye contact as he high-tailed farther away from him, Frederick would get lost in the active street and lose hope. Unfortunately, they met each other halfway as Frederick turned to grab Hamilton’s arm again – which he  _certainly_  did not like the first time – and Hamilton yanked his arm back and his once neutral face turned into a scowl.

“What the hell do you want?” Hamilton, dressed in a long, black coat without gloves, pulled his sleeves back as he prepared himself to physically attack the man. If not, he would do so verbally. He yelled that phrase loud enough that the people around them turned their heads surprisingly, not knowing the context but surely knowing the tension.

“Once again, I came to-”

“What, apologize? Damn right you should,” Hamilton balled his hands into fists. Without hesitation, he added, “Though, in all actuality, it would be improbable that I would accept it.”

Deadpanned, Frederick said, “Those were a lot of big words.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes a spat a cold, “Goodbye, Frederick,” before the Englishman jumped in front of him again.

“Let’s get married,” he said with an un-feigningly happy face. Hamilton’s eyes widened, though his brows stayed furrowed, and he gave him a disbelieving and revolted look. Then, he laughed — purely cackling with his back bent backwards as each cackle released a puff of steam from his breath. Wiping a small tear from his eye, his laughs calmed and his shoulders continued to shake as he spoke.

“You are absolutely  _hilarious,_  you know that? Wow, what a laugh.” Hamilton, fully intending on ridiculing the man who had once almost assaulted him, turned to the crowd and spoke in their language: “ _This man asked to marry me! He whose ego only matches in size with his ignorance!_ ” Some of the crowd laughed in hindsight.

“Nonsense, it is a great idea! Just think of it: our kids running around – hand-picked from the orphanage to be the most dashing children this town’s ever seen – and you massaging my feet with your tiny hands while I…” Frederick’s monologue faltered as he saw Hamilton crack his knuckles with a hostile expression. Laughing weakly, he compromised, “Or I could massage yours?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Hamilton said without remorse, pointing his hand in the direction opposite of him. Frederick flushed in anger and embarrassment as the crowd watched on in interest and disgust. He gave what he figured was a sour expression and turned on his heel and walked in the direction that Hamilton pointed towards for one step before spinning back around and throwing a punch to Hamilton. The latter barely moved out of the way in time – certainly, he had not been expecting that much – and punched the other on the jaw. With an ungraceful thud, Frederick fell to the ground and immediately whined as he examined his dirtied clothing and stinging face. Hamilton, as an act of aggression and a little bit of flair for the crowd, pushed his sleeves back down and gave the man on the ground a dry look as he turned quickly to go back to the trader who was watching in awe and slight fear. He raised his hand to stop the barterer from asking if he was okay and said lowly, “ _How much ink is in the bottle you are trading?_ ”

Holding his bottle of ink in one hand and his bill of trade in another, Hamilton walked home to find that his three friends were still gone. Momentarily confused, he set his things down on his desk and pulled out some fruits from the pantry and ate alone. He began to take off his over-garments and hung them up on the coat hanger. If Lafayette were here now, he thought bittersweet, he would have screamed my head off for my bad manners. Throwing away an apple core and a string of orange peel, he brought out his journal and started to write to his mother again.

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_I am afraid, as you used to say, the bed is too short and the blanket too narrow. Perchance I may be overreacting, but Lafayette, Laurens, and Mulligan have been gone for far too long. Normally they would have been back before I could have the time to blink. Lafayette would be walking into the house in the middle of lecturing Laurens about something related to grace or responsibility and Laurens boringly slumping on his bed, all while Mulligan watches the two warmly. But the three are missing! What travesties can occur whilst one is getting firewood in the forest not a stone’s throw away? Thinking upon it, they might be in trouble. Should I go find them and risk my own demise or should I cower and hope for the best? Well, as you used to say, I am exempt to most cessations._

_Yrs for ever,_

_A. Hamilton_

 

Deciding to sleep on the decision, Hamilton laid in bed to take a nap. As he was trying, however, his mind began to run off from topic to topic, finally focusing and accentuating the fact that his friends were gone. Truly, he had to know what happened to them; he could never be satisfied without the knowledge of events or even never seeing his friends again. In a hurry, he sprang up from his cot and raced to the coat hanger, slipping on his things in a hurry. Bustling out of the door again, he locked it behind him and scaled around the house to find the entrance to the forest, and walked towards it. As he took a step forward, he faltered — quickly jogging back to the house, he stuffed his inner coat pockets with an unused quill, his new ink bottle, and his journal. Then he went back outside and headed towards the forest.

The forest was dark. So dark, in fact, that Hamilton felt a chill run down his back as he brought his foot over a stump of wood and slowly back down to the ground, shifting his weight on that foot and pivoting forwards another step. He continued to walk that way, carefully stepping around branches and fungi and searching for any footprints or firewood. As he was about a couple of yards into the darkness, he heard footsteps and almost yelped in surprise. Fortunately, he covered his mouth before he could, and he began to manually slow his breathing so that it would be inaudible from that distance. Fearing it was bandits, wolves, or worse, he waited in the darkness until the many feet the sounds seemed to procure from waddled away. Taking in air from his nose, he pondered on what that sound was; perhaps it was what he feared, or maybe it was as simple as a deer or something close to that.

Hamilton almost laughed as he thought,  _what if it was my friends?_  It couldn’t be, though… could it? It’s possible, he ultimately decided.

Carefully setting off again, he seemed to walk in his careful and slow way before he eventually gave up and began to walk fast-paced across the terrain. Whenever he’d hear a snap of a twig or a crinkle of a leaf, he’d suppress his yelps and hiked further up the rocks and dirt, almost falling backwards too many times to count. A light caught his eye and his senses pricked as he saw that it was a fire on the ground. His curiosity overtook his judgement and he snuck towards it, noticing with great fear that it was an abandoned torch on the ground surrounded by logs and a little splatter of blood. Placing a hand over his mouth once again, he tried not to cry out or sob as he examined what could be his friends’ demise. He reached out and touched the blood. It was dry. Composing himself and standing, he took a deep breath and followed the logs that seemed to be yards away from each other. Soon enough, he came into a clearing that held none other than a castle — palace? Mansion? Whatever it was — and took a moment to admire the clean architecture before his fingers twitched towards his notebook on his right side. Shaking his head, he went on to the task at hand, and studied the dust forming around the patio peculiarly before knocking on the door assertively.

It took a moment, but soon enough the door was creaking open and revealed a young man holding a piece of fabric out. As Hamilton looked down on it, he saw familiar writing on the underside:  _J. Laurens_. He looked back at the man and gave an angry look as he pointed to the lanyard and said, " _Where did you find this?_ "

The man pointed to his throat and shook his head, mouthing  _cannot talk_ to him as he lowered his hand. Looking him up and down, the man asked,  _who are you?_

Rolling his shoulders back and tilting his chin up, he replied, "My name is Alexander Hamilton. I am looking for my friends who left last night to get some lumber, and it seems as though they stopped by here. Have you seen them or are currently harboring them?"

The man gave Hamilton a frustrated look and, opening the door wider, invited him in. Automatically, he surveyed the room and every wall before stepping in further. The man raised a finger at him and left the room quickly, and Hamilton began to rationalize every aspect of the situation and how he could fight his way out before the man was back with a quill, ink, and sheets of paper. For a while, he was writing, and Hamilton took this as an invitation to really  _look_  at the man. He was dressed in a burgundy — or maroon — sweater that had the faintest gold in the collar and sleeves, not decorations per sé but it's certainly there. He was wearing circular glasses, much like his own, and was adjusting them anxiously as he wrote. His dark skin was smooth and seemingly perfect, and his eyes were dark and wide, though they seemed tired all the same. Hamilton watched him infatuatedly and looked at him aback when the man straightened his spine and slid the paper to him, now covered in writing.

 

_My name is Thomas Jefferson; as you may probably concur from my gestures and mouthing, I am mute. Your friends, Mulligan, Lafayette, and Laurens, came here in need of help a couple of hours ago. Lafayette had gone into shock because he seemingly fell over in the woods running away from something and he needed rehabilitation to heal. They ate a meal that I made for them and left, Laurens and Lafayette drunk. They talked about you while they were here — Hamilton, right? They left because they were worried about you, though the same ideals seemed to be passed onto you verbatim. Nevertheless, I am happy to have a guest with me and I am able to provide any means of food you may need, if you just ask._

 

On the bottom was his neat signature. Hamilton took out his own quill and dipped it in the ink, wordlessly communicating with Thomas as to what he was doing and pulling a blank sheet of paper towards him. He only wrote one sentence before passing it back to Jefferson.

 

_When did they leave? AH_

_About half an hour, give or take. TJ_

_And you say Lafayette was injured? AH_

_His leg, which I have been told was injured to begin with, was hurt even further. I suppose he fell on something. TJ_

_Thank you, but I must be going now. AH_

 

Jefferson looked up at him from the paper after he'd read it and gave him a searching and sad gaze. Queasy and a bit tender under his stare, Hamilton stared back at him for what seemed like hours before he sat up and grinned, " _Not before you make me some of that lovely food you cooked before_." He saw Jefferson smile and he scribbled something on the paper and made towards the kitchen with a stretch.

 

_Feel free to show yourself around for a while, just don’t go in the West Wing. TJ_

 

Hamilton watched his tall and built figure leave the room and he stood as well, almost following him to the kitchen, but deciding against it and walking through the other entrance of the room.

 

* * *

 

“Hamilton, we’re…” Mulligan peered in the house to see no signs of the man. Frowning, he echoed, “Hamilton, where are you?”

“What is wrong, _mon amour_ ,” Lafayette said as he slid against Mulligan’s large frame to get into the house. He looked at the barren room and looked up at Mulligan with a confused face. “What are you looking for?” Wordlessly, Mulligan entered the house fully and walked to the room where Hamilton was staying, his suspicions confirmed when he saw a messy bed, but no Hamilton.

Laurens, who had sobered up a little during the cold walk there, cried out, “What do you _mean_ , ‘he’s not here?!’” Laurens opened the closet and looked inside, then went to the ground to look under the bed. When he came up, he looked distraught. He put his hands in his hair and wailed, “Where the hell is Alex?”

Mulligan, placing Lafayette down to rest, came up to Laurens and placed his hands on his shoulders while he panted. Laurens squirmed, trying to get out of his grasp, but his iron grip persisted. “John, relax,” he said softly, not letting Laurens look anywhere but his stare. “He’s probably out getting some food, or asking around where we are. He’ll be back in no time.”

“But-”

“And,” Mulligan concluded, sliding his hands down to Laurens’ upper arm, “it’s going to be just fine. Next thing you know, he’s going to be walking in from that door-” Mulligan pointed back at the front door with this chin- “and we’re going to be here, explaining to him everything that happened. Alright?”

Taking a reluctant deep breath, Laurens nodded. “A-alright.”

“Now, let’s sleep. I’m tired as hell.”

Laurens barked a laugh, rolling into bed slowly while watching Mulligan do the same. “Yeah. I need all of my energy so that I can beat Hamilton’s ass tomorrow.”

“You do that.”

“Hey, Hercules? You know what I just thought about?” Laurens whispered out to the darkness.

Laurens heard Mulligan turning in his bed. “What?”

“What if…” Laurens chuckled a little. “What if, when we heard those footsteps in the forest, it was actually Hammy, and we missed him?”

He was met with silence. Then, “Go to sleep, John.”

When they all woke up, Hamilton was still gone. Nobody stressed it, though, and soon they were all in the markets again when Lafayette was conversing happily with a woman selling her crops. “ _Can I tell you a secret?_ ” he said, oblivious to the woman’s fixation on him. “ _I met the mute prince last night!_ ” The woman recoiled, straightening her back and giving him a sour look.

“ _It is unholy to lie_ ,” she said, turning her nose on him. “ _Now, buy something or leave!_ ”

Feeling insulted and a bit hurt, he stood straight as well. “ _You do not believe me?_ ”

“ _No. Now, as I said_ _before-_ ”

“ _But I swear it,_ ” Lafayette stood to his full height, which was a bit hard with his injured leg, but he did all the same. The woman gasped and hit him lightly on the arm with a rag, even more offended than he was.

“ _Do not swear on a lie!_ ” was all she said, and that was the end of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mulligan got these nerds is loco parentis
> 
> edit: i've been asked what that "i am exempt from cessation" part means and basically it was the epistolarian inside of me saying that no matter how many times he's faced death, he can't seem to die. *cue _hurricane's_ motif reprises*
> 
> anyways, thanks for reading!


	4. nevermore/the locked room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Strange, is it not? He reminds me of that mute prince; alone in his manor, without a voice to speak or cry out…_  
>  Strange, indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm actually proud of my writing today and (this is completely off-topic) if you know how much i love using little emoticons you'll understand how excited i was to find this one:
> 
> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿  
>  ****  
>  _IT LOOKS LIKE THE PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE WILLY WONKA_  
> 

Truly, Hamilton was astounded at how simple yet intricate some of the rooms of Jefferson’s manor were. Leaving the door open as he walked into a room, he was immediately met with the pale or faded purple wall – which was mostly covered by bookshelves on one side of the room – and thick, purple curtains in the back of the rooms that must have covered a window of some kind. Directly opposite of the door was a mirror, small and ovular, which was too tall for him to see his own reflection. What he did see, though, was a face not of his. Turning quickly to look, he found that it was a bust sitting atop the thick frame of the door. Balancing on the balls of his feet to look closer, he read the Greek writing below the woman’s stoic faces before he pieced together that it was Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Narrowing his eyes in confusion as to why it was there, he continued to take in the room. There were two paintings on the side wall opposite of the bookshelf, a man and a woman looking happier than someone being painted for hours could look. The man, dark-skinned and smiling brightly, his teeth shining brilliantly, his shoulders garmented with a thick and expensive-looking overcoat, had a gleam in his eye that Hamilton observed for a while. Silently in awe of both the man with such passions and the painter that could put that passion onto a glare of the iris, he went to the woman. Though her skin was lighter and her smile was not as wide, Hamilton saw a slight similarity of the two. This woman, however, looked immensely wise, which reminded him of the Athena bust over the door as he compared the two with his eyes. In all, however, the woman was dazzlingly beautiful; full, dark lips, chin tilted high and proud, and silky and soft-looking fabric that danced along her almost-bare shoulders. Right beside her left eye, crinkled with her genuine smile, was a small beauty mark. Unbeknownst to Hamilton, he was smiling unconsciously, feeling their echoes of joy resonate within him. Continuing on, he looked at the other side of the room to the bookshelf, which had one area that wasn’t dusty in comparison to the rest. Pulling out a book by the top of its spine, he read the title: _The Raven, The Tell-Tale Heart, and Other Brilliant Works by Edgar Allan Poe_. With a noise of understanding and a snap of his fingers, he looked at the room once more.

“So _that’s_ what this reminded me of,” he said to himself as he eyed the Athena bust one last time. “It’s the room from _The Raven_.”

He spun his neck back to the portraits, confused again. “But that’s not…” Quickly weighing his options, he decided it would be futile to try and search for an answer. His host cannot answer his questions so quickly, after all, and it feels weird to pry so hard at this man who looks as if Hamilton himself is a delusion, as if he’s never seen another person in months, _years_ -

He started to walk faster. Trying to take his mind off of those thoughts, he looked at knick-knacks on the small table in the hallway. Though, after looking at their intricate designs, they can hardly be called as such. One was a coaster like book _entitled Diggs and Miranda: the Rivalry that Forged a Nation_ that had gold linings on the spine. Hamilton picked it up and looked at the back; it was about America’s Lin-Manuel Miranda and Daveed Diggs, two political rivals, which coincidentally strengthened a nation with their ideals. Hamilton thought it looked interesting but set it down anyways. The other thing was quite large, and it was a golden candlestick that seemed to give an ethereal glow that shined even in the dimming candlelight. Encrusted on the bottom was _J. Madison_ , which even without context looked extremely invaluable and personal. He wondered who gave it to Thomas.

Not wanting to think about it too much, Hamilton exited the room and went back into the main room that Jefferson left him in before going to cook. Hamilton raised his nose in the air and sniffed; he could smell fresh bread, and maybe some red meat sizzling on the cooktop. Now that he thinks about it, he could faintly hear the sizzle of something over a fire and could barely stand the thought of waiting much longer. He started to stand in excitement, but quickly sat back down embarrassingly, turning pink though nobody was there to watch him jump around. He shook his head at himself and pulled out his journal, picking his quill back up from the table and dipping it in Jefferson’s ink decanter before scribbling a new page in his notes.

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_Unfortunately, I am not out looking for Mulligan, Lafayette, and Laurens. I was walking through the forest, quietly looking around for the three, when I found a clearing that held an enormous manor — oh, how you would faint at the size of the building. And, peculiarly, it only houses one man. Thomas Jefferson, he said his name was; he told me that my three friends had stopped by in need of help because Lafayette had gotten injured. Upon further thought, let me revise that: he did not tell me, he wrote it to me. You see, this man cannot talk. There was no explanation as to why, or how, he just made a motion of his hands and mouthed to me that he could not communicate verbally. Strange, is it not? He reminds me of that mute prince; alone in his manor, without a voice to speak or cry out…_

_Strange, indeed._

_Yours,_

_A. H_

 

He didn’t get to finish his last name, because he heard steps and whipped his head up to meet eyes with Jefferson, who was holding two large plates in each hand. Jerking his chin up to motion handlessly to move his things, Jefferson watched Hamilton scramble his things up and moved them to the end of the table. Thomas placed the two plates, both with the same food on it. Minutely licking his lips, Hamilton looked up at Jefferson – who was already looking at him. Hamilton saw his eyes widen and his pupils dilate. Jefferson’s gaze flicked to the wall awkwardly and he took a step back, realizing belatedly how close the two were. Thomas made a vague motion for Hamilton to sit, and he did; the two ate both in silence and close proximity. As Hamilton took a bite of his steak, his eyes closed and he moaned quite embarrassingly, wiping his hands to pick up some of the juice that came from the meat. With his eyes still closed, Hamilton nodded to himself and commented, “ _This is delicious, my God_ …”

When Hamilton opened his eyes, he saw Thomas staring at him with an indescribable expression, his pupils blown – though that may be because of the low candlelight. Thomas looked down at his plate and ate, awkwardly escaping another weird moment that almost happened, and they stayed in fidgety silence until Thomas took both plates up and took them into the kitchen, then pouring the two of them glasses of white wine. Hamilton, ill-mannered and boisterous as he was, drank three-fourths of the wine in one big gulp, slurps and all. Thomas hesitated before pouring a bit more into the glass so that there was at least half of what was originally there. Sipping his drink timidly, he watched Hamilton scribble onto a scratch sheet of paper. He thought he was continuing to write to himself before he slithered the paper in the space between both of his elbows, which were propped on the table. Hamilton smiled and held out his quill and ink decanter for him to use. Taking them both and setting them down, Thomas read the paper under his eyes:

 

_The food was delicious, and I thank you greatly for your hospitality on such short notice. Though I must ask, would you show me more of this manor? I’m afraid my curiosity is peaking today, and this place looks absolutely beautiful. AH_

 

Thomas looked at him in a way he couldn’t understand yet – was it shame? Sadness? Longing? Whatever it was, it didn’t look like the proper reaction to what he wrote to him. Hamilton placed his hands – which were starting to turn clammy with nervousness – on his pants and looked up expectantly. Slowly, Thomas began to write.

 

_Maybe later; I have something I need to attend to. TJ_

 

Hamilton felt himself deflate as Thomas quickly turned his back on him and left the room. Standing, he watched Thomas go up the stairs and to the left, into the West Wing. Frustration seeps in his veins; he knew he couldn’t follow him because that would be rude, firstly, and he would also be in the one place he was forbidden to go. _But when have you ever cared about that_ , he asked himself as the strained his eyes to see Thomas give him one last look before walking out of sight. Hamilton sat back down with a huff and pulled his closed journal towards him again, writing his frustrations down. A longcase clock’s gloomy peal rang throughout the manor, its song echoing off the walls. Hamilton startled, gripping his quill and almost snapping it at the sound; the last time he heard a bell that loud, he was on Nevis, looking down a six-foot deep hole as the strong-arms of the island lowered the casket with ropes…

Hamilton took a shaky breath and dropped the quill as if it burned him.

 

* * *

 

One right turn, straight ahead, last door to the right. Thomas has visited this room more times than he could count, and he’s kept track of a lot of things. Slowly, he opened the door and slinked inside, closing the door behind him. If Hamilton were to follow him – because he looks like the kind of person who would – he tried making as little noise as possible as he stepped into the dimly-lit room. There was only three things in the room as of now: a table, the rose, and Thomas. With a pang in his chest, Thomas watched a petal falter, curl in on itself minutely, and detach itself from the bud, falling slowly as it revealed one more standing petal attached to the pathetic, almost-naked interiors of the flower. Thomas, with a heavy chest, wondered why the petals were falling faster all of a sudden. One a day? That would mean that any day now will be its last, and Thomas actually _will_ live alone forever.

Oddly, Thomas thought back to Hamilton, who was downstairs, probably with those eyes that take Thomas in every time he looks into them and pinkish tint to his cheeks whenever Thomas caught him staring… He must be confused, or sad, or even angry at this point — he’s down there, all by himself, waiting by some chance that Thomas would come down and that horrifying awkwardness would subside. Just like Thomas has been for a decade. Nonetheless, it feels weird to leave him there, where he couldn’t be with him. Not just because of the obvious reason: he _is_ a stranger in his house and he knows nothing of his capabilities, and even though he would not appreciate if he came downstairs and half the manor was running off in Hamilton’s arms. But, rather, he actually wants to spend time with the man; to get to know this complex man who he feels he knows more than he thinks.

Without thinking, he scaled down the stairs and there he was — stepping out of the lounge with a hopeful expression, and Thomas ever-so gracefully hold out his hand for him to grab as he walks closer and closer to him. Trying desperately to look cool and confident, he patiently watches Hamilton give him an adoring look before sliding his smaller hand into Thomas’. Almost excitedly – excitedly meaning _definitely_ – he led Hamilton up the steps and quickly turned left, far away from the rose and away from his secret. Peculiarly, Hamilton gripped his hand a little tighter, and Thomas felt butterflies flutter in his stomach as he opened one of the guest room doors with his unoccupied hand. Pointing at the bed with joking bravado, he smiled weakly and beckoned for him to go there.

“ _This is my temporary room, it’s safe to assume_ ,” Alexander chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “ _Has it gone dark already? It’s seems like only an hour has passed.”_

Thomas smiled, as he obviously couldn’t reply, and began to close the door before Hamilton called out to him. Opening the door wider, he gave him a questioning look before he spoke, “ _How will I change my clothes?_ ”

Thomas entered the room again and pulled out the drawers, showing that they were indeed full of clothes that must fit him. Hamilton nodded his head and said his goodnights before Thomas left the room once again and he saw the lights hesitantly dim from the gap below the door and left to his room where he slept dreamlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor alex poor tommy but poor me as well because i have to deal with the soul-crushing job of making angst while also being as fluffy as i'll allow myself


	5. the man/the breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _J- Thomas, I…_ ” Hamilton, the man who always had two cents to throw, an argument to provoke, was strangely silent. He took a deep breath and tried again. “ _I didn’t-_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for angst and pining and angst and fluff with angst as a topping
> 
> also: warning for a lil bit of graphic content (not really but just to be sure) thomas cuts his finger with a knife! if you don't want to read it, skip the part where it has it from "Thomas looked up at Hamilton and mouthed, 'Share...'" to "Once Hamilton was done patching him up..."
> 
> just in case you needed it ♥

It was the middle of the night, possibly morning. Hamilton knew this because when he woke, there was nothing. No candlelight flickering across the room showing its furniture, no light footsteps at his door, silence from the birds outside. The air felt different; it felt emptier than in the morning. It was too late – or early – to be awake, but there he was. Curiously, Hamilton flipped in the bed and Hamilton leaned towards the nightstand, still in bed, and lit a match, slowly lighting the long candle. He grabbed the candle by its metal holder. Silently and gracefully pushing himself to the balls of his feet, Hamilton walked towards the door and opened it as slowly as possible, making sure it wouldn’t creak. He’d been brought to this room so quickly that he was unfamiliar with this hallway, so he observed the paintings on the wall. The first one was a person he’s never seen before. He wasn’t as rich as the others, that’s for sure; instead of a dazzling display of reds and purples on his shoulders, the man wore simple but tailored blazer overtop a grey vest and a white shirt, and a black bow. He looked like a butler, but who would paint their butler? He looked like family as well. The man was smiling without baring any teeth, and his eyes crinkled on the sides happily as his skin seemed to glow with kindness. His chin had a small patch of hair on it, and just a hint on his upper lip.

He walked a little further and there were more paintings. One was a picnic, nothing too peculiar or puzzle-solving. The next, though, was very interesting. It was the two royal people from the Raven room, but there was one more figure in between them; a very young boy with coily, springing hair was smiling wider than the two people – parents? – at his sides. His clothes were red, white, and gold; his collars were spotless with gold accenting the buttons and even a ring on his right hand. Hamilton squinted and brought the candle closer until he realized that that boy was _Jefferson_. Upon that realization, he gasped before slapping a hand to his mouth; he didn’t want Jefferson to wake up and find him up. Then suddenly, he had an idea. He slowly turned his head to the West Wing, curiosity seeping into his veins. He took one step in that direction, wondering what the hell could be so bad in the West Wing that he was forbidden to go. He took another step. Maybe it’s just dangerous, but how could it be? Another step. One little peek couldn’t be that bad. Finally deciding to look, he hurried towards one of the doors – the one down the hall and to the left – and had his hand on the doorknob.

By his terrible luck, a door down the hall opened.

It’s not the fact that he got caught that scared him. It was Jefferson’s face; he looked betrayed and scared, as if Hamilton had found some deep, dark secret that he’s been trying to hide. Even from that distance, he could tell Jefferson was shaking. Hamilton tried to take a step towards him to apologize or explain or _something_ but he recoiled even from feet away, and his mouth opened. He mouthed something, but he was shaking so much that Hamilton couldn’t tell what he said.

“ _J- Thomas, I_ …” Hamilton, the man who always had two cents to throw, an argument to provoke, was strangely silent. He took a deep breath and tried again. “ _I didn’t_ -”

Thomas goes into his room quickly, and after a few noises of shuffling, he comes back out with a paper and quill. Almost dishearteningly, he walked to Hamilton and handed the item to him, looking down at his shoes shamefully.

 

_Did you see it? TJ_

 

Confused, Hamilton dabbed his quill in the decanter and scribbled an answer. After he finished, he handed it back to Thomas, and they passed the paper among each other by the light of the candle.

 

_See what? AH_

_Nothing. What were you doing in that area? TJ_

_I was looking for the restroom; I figured it was that room. AH_

 

That, of course, was a lie; Thomas didn’t know that, however, and he couldn’t explain why he was really there without sounding guilty of something.

 

_It’s downstairs, second hallway, first door on the right. It’s late — you should be in bed. TJ_

_I will be soon. AH_

Looking at Hamilton in the dim candlelight was a sight to behold, Thomas rationalized. He still had bags under his eyes but his eyes themselves were truly the keenest and most marvelous eyes he’s seen in his leaden, uneventful life. Hell, the stars in the sky dull in comparison to the gleam in his eye accentuated by the flickering light of the candle as he speaks. Though maybe it’s not just the candle; for the short time they’ve been accustomed to each other, Thomas just couldn’t help but notice how there seemed to be a candlelight already in his eyes, though maybe it’s a lot bigger than a candlelight. A fire is more like it — bold and blazing and passionate. As Hamilton whispered his apologies quickly and headed towards the bathroom, Thomas felt his true fatigue weigh on his shoulders. At the thought of Hamilton finding… whatever he is or hasn’t told him yet, his blood was practically boiling, but now that that was solved he truly felt like his weariness correlated with how late it was. He glanced at the longcase clock down the hallway and adjusted his circular glasses to tell the time: it was almost two in the morning.

 

* * *

 

“It’s almost two in the goddamn morning, and _Hamilton isn’t back._ ” Laurens paced back and forth across the kitchen, his hand twisting and pulling on a curl that fell from his neat plait. Lafayette, now sober and desperately trying to ignore his searing pain, chewed on but did not break his nails, picking at the skin and hairs in worry. And Mulligan — he was speechless in the sense that he was leaning against the back wall of the kitchen shutting out all of his surroundings. He was trying to think, but all he could hear or focus on was Laurens ramblings of, “We need to call the sheriff, the marshal, the coroners… do they have sheriffs in fucking _France?_ ” Mulligan tried comforting him earlier, but he simultaneously burst into wrecking sobs and got into a fighting position with his fists raised as he brokenly spat curses, so he supposed that letting him burn himself out in a sense is worse than the whole house going to flames because Hamilton can’t leave past curfew without leaving a note.

Hamilton is a fully grown adult with his own motives and desires, but he can’t take care of himself if it could kill him not to; and most of the time, it would. He would forget his own head if it weren’t attached to his neck, and he probably then wouldn’t give a rat’s ass because all he needed was his journal and his quill to “survive,” which was absolutely false and he would have dropped dead if the three of them weren’t there to guide him through the catacombs of his own mind. In a way, the three of them were like parents to Hamilton: Mulligan was the overall loco parentis of the whole group, Lafayette was the careful and worrisome caretaker, and always liked for everything to have structure and order. Laurens liked for everyone, especially Hamilton, to be able to do what they like and often gave them all the boost they needed to get the job done.

But now that Hamilton isn’t here for them to take care of, who will surrogate?

 

* * *

 

Thomas regrets letting Hamilton stay, because now he is sadly anticipating his departure. He wakes up a bit too late for his taste, as he was awoken last night by Hamilton’s search for the bathroom, and wakes up pleasantly surprised by the smell of food coming from downstairs. He walks sluggishly to the mirror on the wall and stares at his reflection, grabbing small pinches of his hair and pulling them out and away from the scalp until it looked decent enough. Then, with two fingers, he brushed some of the hair away from his face and ran a hand across his face, rubbing his palm against his cheek and beard. He essentially tried to make himself look as alive as possible before descending the stairs and walking barefooted into the tiled kitchen. He watched Hamilton – who had to actually procure a _stool_ to reach the spices from the top shelf –run around the kitchen as he simultaneously toasted pieces of bread, fried an egg, and seasoned an uncooked chicken. Thomas went behind him and looked over his shoulder, curious to what he was making. Hamilton yelped, startled by his sudden appearance.

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” he said embarrassingly, gripping a wooden spoon so hard his knuckles were white. “ _I didn’t notice you were there!_ ” Thomas points to the food with a questioning expression and Hamilton breaks into a soft smile. “ _Oh, I figured you were too tired to cook, so I took it upon myself to make breakfast! This is_ Mallorca _, I used to make this all the time with my_ …”

His smile dropped, and he turned back around, flipping the egg. “ _Anyways, it will be ready soon, so sit tight._ ”

Thomas shook his head and made a cutting motion. Hamilton, understanding what he meant, tilted his chin to some peppers on a cutting board. “Can you cut those peppers for me? I was thinking of making some omelets as well-”

Thomas gave him a weird look and he gave one back, laughing. “ _I know it’s a lot of food, but I don’t know how big your appetite is and mine is very big. Would you want to share the omelet or do you want your own?”_

Thomas looked up at Hamilton and mouthed, “ _Share_ ,” but as he was doing it his grip on the pepper slipped and he was met with a searing pain on his finger. He jumped and looked down, seeing the blood well up in a thick and round line across his finger. Holding his finger and grimacing, he leaned on the counter and breathed heavily – counting to ten in his head, then back to one – and his head went limp and hung from his shoulders. He wished that he could scream, that way some of the pain would alleviate, but all he could do was agonize in silence. Hamilton, looking up obliviously from the fire to gaze at him, dropped his utensil to the ground with a clatter and rushed to Thomas, placing a hand on his back. He began to ask what was wrong; Thomas only shook his head and tried to turn to go somewhere else — where that place was, he wasn’t certain. Hamilton, however, stopped him by getting in front of him and working himself up to ask again before he looked at his hands and saw the blood streaking down his hands. Hamilton gasped and demanded weakly for Thomas to let him help. Thomas nodded quickly and gasped in shock and pain as Hamilton pulled him to the bathroom — _second hallway, first door to the right._

Hamilton ran to the bathroom and flipped on the faucet, saying “ _This is going to hurt_ ” quickly before running the fast water directly onto the wound to clean it. Thomas winced in pain and watched the water swirl with and mix with the dark blood. Hamilton ordered him to keep washing it and looked through all of the cabinets until he found some gauze and medical tape. It was a godsend he had those things, otherwise he would have used other toiletries, and it wouldn’t have made the situation any better. He took Thomas’ hand and dried it off on a random decorative towel before wrapping it in the gauze, muttering tactlessly “ _This looks a bit deep_.” Thomas couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his words but nevertheless pulled his lips to a frown as his finger began to sting again.

Once Hamilton was done patching him up, he took a step back and – as if he could not be more endearing – _preened_ at his work, arms akimbo and a satisfied smirk on his lips. Thomas blinked once and mouthed this thanks as he took Hamilton’s hands. Hamilton’s expression turned into one of shock and adoration as he spoke softly: “ _Not a problem_.” Thomas watched him lean in minutely and Thomas began to do the same before Hamilton gasped loudly and whipped his head to the open door. Hamilton screeched, “ _My omelet!_ ” And raced out of the door, leaving a very disappointed Thomas trudging after him.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” he heard Hamilton sob as he walked through the kitchen. “ _My omelet is ruined, and no- my toast is stale!_ ” Hamilton extinguished the fires on the pots and pans and sighed dramatically. Thomas laughed silently as he watched Hamilton whine, which caused Hamilton to give him a feigningly cold look, puffed up chest and all. Thomas motioned for him to wait and quickly grabbed scrap paper and a quill from the office in some rooms over, the quill scratching across the paper as he made his loops around his y’s and g’s.

 

_Would you follow me? I have something to show you. TJ_

 

Hamilton practically bounced reading the words, nodding ecstatically as Thomas bent his finger behind him as he walked out as a signal to follow. They went past the large stairway and down the large hallway, and Hamilton shocked as he took in just how _enormous_ the manor actually was. _This must be a ballroom_ , he decided as he took in the room. A chandelier was hanging atop the ceiling, how those candles were constantly replaced and lit he was unsure. The floor was spotless and perfect for dancing, so much so that he felt like every step of his was tainting its shining gloss. There wasn’t time to waste, however, because Thomas was crossing the ballroom with long strides as if he saw it a million times already and became desensitized to its beauty. He probably has, considering the fact that he almost looks _angry_ as he crosses the ballroom. It’s quickly dissipated as they exit the ballroom and turn around a corner, which only makes Hamilton more confused. Finally, they arrive at what looks like-

“ _A library!_ ” gasps Hamilton, his happiness radiating off of his trembling figure. He extended a hand, retracted it, then shot it back out again. He turned to Thomas with an adoring expression and pleaded, “ _Oh, may I please take a look around?_ ”

Thomas nodded his head and he ran off, squealing in delight as he read off some of the classics that he could never acquire otherwise. “ _Gulliver’s Travels, Fable of the Bees- my word! You even have The Adventures of Roderick Random!_ ” He flipped through book after book, completely fascinated at how much there was to see, to read. The skimmed his fingers through the spines of the books before catching his eye on one entitled, _The Dictionary of the Deaf and Mute: American-to-French Sign Language_. Immediately interested, he pulled it out and flipped to the first page, excluding himself to a corner of two bookshelves and signing to himself until he got bored. He got to the p’s; with a thud of the thick book, he stood from his position and put the book where he knows he will find it. He looks to the side and sees Thomas huddled over a book on a chair, and they give each other a look before Hamilton gets handed another piece of paper.

 

_You’ve been reading for hours; I’m going to cook dinner soon. In the meantime, change out of your nightwear. TJ_

 

Hamilton looked down and noticed that yes, he still _is_ wearing his sleeping clothes — and Thomas is wearing a mere white shirt and trousers, as they might not be going anywhere soon. Hamilton agreed, still mildly shocked that it’s been that long since breakfast, and stretched his arms and legs before stepping out of the library. He passed the ballroom – not before admiring it one more time, of course – and went back to his room to change before dinner started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwwwoah!!! a FAUCET in the middle of the forest of a provincial french town in the late 1780s??? WHAT A DISASTER!!! (yes that's when this takes place)
> 
> what else was i going to do, have them run outside and throw a bucket down a well


	6. soldier's honor/pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a dance, posture, stance.
> 
> (aka the quick update)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't noticed (or wasn't sure), if someone's speech is italicized, that means that it is in a different language. as this is set in france, the default foreign language is french. unless explicitly said otherwise, consider all fully-italicized speech to be in french. note that this does not mean words italicized for emphasis. i would actually write the words in french, as i am semi-fluent in the language, but not many people know the language as well and i'm sure if i did, it wouldn't be as easy to read.  
> (toutefois, si te sais le langue, s'il vous plaît me parle! j'ai besoin de pratique!!)
> 
> ALSO, you can tell it's gonna be sad by the title right just checking

“ _Excuse me, have you seen a man named Alexander Hamilton?_ ” Laurens asked a woman who was walking by, stopping her as he spoke. “ _He’s average height and weight, and he looks like this_.” He handed her a sketch drawing of Hamilton to show her. She gave him a sad look as she shook her head, looking down at the drawing again.

“ _I’m sorry. But I haven’t seen him. If I do, though, I’ll come looking for you_.” The woman, about the same height as Laurens with a soft, round face and long, dark hair, gave him a promising smile.

“ _Thank you, ma’am, you’ve been a great help. My name is John Laurens, and you are?_ ”

“ _Elizabeth Schuyler_ ,” the woman replied, shaking his extended hand. “ _I apologize in advance if my French errs, I am only visiting with my family for the season._ ”

Laurens laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “ _So are my friends and I; if I may ask, do you speak any English?_ ”

“Yes, I am American,” she answered in English with a bigger smile. “And you?”

“American, as well,” replied he, pulling the paper back to his chest. “Have you heard of the tale of _La Bête?_ ”

“Why yes, I have. Why do you ask?”

John leaned forwards and said lowly, “Me and my friends may or may not have met the man.”

Elizabeth looked at him, dumbfounded. “I thought that was just a legend; you’re not lying are you?”

“I promise; soldier’s honor.” Laurens placed a hand to his chest.

The two conversed for a while until Laurens was called back by Lafayette, and they separated. When Elizabeth went home, she told her sisters of her experience, and they told their father; soon, everybody knew about the revival of the Mute Prince, and they all know who started the dastardly rumor.

 

* * *

 

Dinner came and went; it was poached eggs on toast, which made Hamilton laugh, and they ate together in silence without the tension and awkwardness. They passed notes during that time, using paper after paper as they went from joking matters to more serious subjects.

 

_Thomas, you are an enigma. So much so that I feel overbearing in your presence. AH_

_I could say the same to you, Hamilton. TJ_

_Hamilton? Please, my colleagues only call me that because they’re used to it. Call me Alexander. AH_

_Alexander it is, then. Why are they used to referring to you by your surname? TJ_

_Ever-so curious you are, my dear Thomas, how lucky you are that I love to converse. Well, Mulligan, Laurens, Lafayette, and I were in the American Revolution; we fought alongside each other until the last moment. AH_

_You fought for the British? TJ_

_Heavens, no. We are American. AH_

 

After dinner, Alexander grabbed the plates and put them away to wash, dunking them in a bucket and wiping the dishes clean with a rag. The clean dishes were handed to Thomas, who dried them and put them up. Then they began to clean everything else; Alexander found a broom and began to sweep the halls, whistling as he worked and looking up occasionally to see Thomas balancing on the balls of his feet to dust a frame or light fixture. He noticed a lot of things, especially that when Thomas reaches for something above him (which is seldom, because he is very tall), his shirt begins to slowly loosen and untuck itself and at one point had completely separated from his trousers, his lower stomach and midriff exposing a lean but muscled figure. Alexander looked at Thomas frequently, he noted as he looked back down to gather the dirt and dust on the floor.

Then Alexander began to work on the décor of the house. Of course, it was already accented with the delicate paintings and the simple things hanging around the house, but Alexander knew there _must_ be more. With Thomas’ permission, he dug through the many closets of the house and found very interesting items to put around the house: three glass masks, varying in size, with different designs, a wind chime that Alexander put in the balcony on Thomas’ bedroom, and a strange sculpture that he decided not to touch. Finally, as he was hanging up the wind chime, he found a music room. Alexander gasped as his eyes met the grand piano sitting in the middle of the room, its glossy figure enrapturing his eye. On the walls sat stringed instruments sitting from largest to smallest, and stands all over with sheet music. This, he decided, was the best surprise of them all. Rushing back to Thomas, he ran down the stairs with large thuds and slid around the corner to the living room where Thomas was last, and there he was. He was curled upon a divan with a book in his hand and a quill in the other; as he read, he paused to scribble on a sheet of paper and continued on. Alexander knocked on the wall to get his attention and he looked up from his perched glasses, giving him an inquiring look.

“ _You have a music room_ ,” Alexander said happily, “ _And you haven’t shown me?_ ”

Thomas looked up at him hesitantly, looking reticent. Alexander leaned his weight on one hip, placing his hand akimbo. He wore a smile with a playfully furrowed brow as he cooed, “ _Come on, you must be talented if you have a music room in the first place. Please, for me?_ ”

Thomas blinked and looked down at his book before closing it and setting it down on the divan. He smiled at Alexander and made a motion for him to go ahead, following him as he bounded out of the room and up the stairs. One turn to the right, another right, and a left later, they both stepped into the music room, Alexander with a squeak as he went up to the grand piano and Thomas with a fond smile as he watched him. As if it were a recital, the two men went to their respective instrument choice — Thomas to his violin and Alexander to the piano’s chair.

“ _Shall we do… Mozart’s Piano Sonata 11?_ ” Alexander asked with retained excitement as he lightly ran his fingers across the keys so softly that they made no sound. He looked at Thomas and saw him nod, shifting his pages to match Alexander’s. “ _A-major, correct?_ ” He saw him nod again and watched in awe as Thomas rolled his shoulders back and put his violin in position.

Then the music started. First, the piano; timid and slow. Thomas closed his eyes as if he were drinking the music in, and lifted his bow and began to play along. Alexander almost faltered at the sight of Thomas while he was playing: his back was straight, his posture perfect, and his arms were so slow and graceful that it resembled that of a dancer winding the soul in the midst of a great leap, and even Alexander felt that rush in his stomach as if he jumped with him, the music speeding to match his heartbeat. Alexander began to sway to the music as it ended, his fingers deftly hitting the last chord. Awestruck, he immediately looked at Thomas, who exhaled softly, his shoulders slumping slightly, slowly. He seemed to still be into the music, though it was long gone; he was gripping onto the last note as it hung in the atmosphere. His eyes finally opened and he battered his eyelashes, looking at his bow.

He was beautiful.

Thomas looked at him with wide eyes, his lips parted slightly. Alexander gulped as he realized that he’d spoken aloud and broke into a forced grin. “ _The music. It was beautiful_ ,” he amended, which earned a bashful smile from Thomas.

They didn’t talk about the music after that. They both exited the room in awe, both going back to the living room and sitting. They both had the music thrumming through their veins; Thomas’ in Alexander and vice versa. Alexander stood and went into the ballroom — truly, he had no idea what he was about to do, but why not? He looked around the expansive room and found it: it was a radio, previously dirty prior to his cleaning it, but it looks too new to be used in years. Bending down and turning the knobs, he breathed a laugh as the radio began to emit static then, after some tuning, began to play a slow song’s beginning instrumental. Feeling confident and a bit infatuated, he quickly went back to the living room and met eyes with a confused Thomas, who noticed the music. Alexander held out his hand and Thomas hesitated before slipping his hand in Alexander’s. The latter pulled Thomas into the ballroom and said with a soft voice, “ _Dance with me_.” He saw Thomas’ pupils dilate as he nodded, not letting go of Alexander’s hand.

The singer began to sing, her voice warbling and vulnerable as she spoke her fluent French. Alexander stepped closer to Thomas, and they both awkwardly put their unoccupied hands on another’s sides; Thomas holding him by his hip and Alexander the arm holding him. Slowly, they began to move with the music. It was awkward at first; Alexander tried to lead initially but it was impossible with the height difference and so he laughed, Thomas taking it upon himself to lead. Also, the fact that they were both in white shirts tucked in trousers and nothing more made it feel like this elegant dance would look too casual, but somehow it only made it more graceful. Thomas took a large step forward and Alexander stepped back, and Thomas released him from his grip to spin him in a circle. Alexander laughed again, and they came back closer than prior and danced freely. The two shifted their weights to the balls of their feet. They twirled and swanned across the ballroom, only focusing on the other’s eyes and how they sparkled in the light of the bright chandelier. In that moment, Alexander forgot about everything: the troubles of his past, the worrying present, the terrifying future — everything but Thomas.

Suddenly, his thoughts entering the aforethought veracity of the situation, Thomas began to tear up. He didn’t understand what was happening; he didn’t understand why Alexander was here, why this had happened now… The last petal of the wilting rose. He hadn’t checked on it since the day before, and knowing how it was acting earlier on in the days prior he knows the last petal must becoming wilted, or perhaps already dead. Maybe he has no chance in finding his true love after all.

Alexander felt him stop in his tracks and immediately looked up to see the tears welling in Thomas’ eyes. He wasn’t looking back at him; instead, his eyes were trained behind his shoulder, off into the distance, as if he were caught in his own thoughts. Alexander started to worry, so he took his hand that was holding his forearm and brought it up to cup his cheek. He asked what was wrong and Thomas seemed to snap out of his reverie — he flinched and stepped back, getting completely out of his grasp.

Hurt and confused, Alexander asked again, “ _Thomas, what’s going on?_ ”

Thomas hiccupped a sob and brought his hands close to his torso, making a hand signal that looked like sign language. His thumbs out and pointing towards each other, he moved them in a circle. Alexander wracked his brain for what it meant, he was _positive_ he’d seen it before…

_Pain._

“ _Thomas, please_ ,” he said sadly, “ _Please let me help you_.” Alexander stepped closer to him and Thomas sat – or fell – on the spotless ballroom floor, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. Without thinking, Alexander sat down with him and waited; for what exactly, he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to leave him there. He scooted next to Thomas and placed his hand on the first he could find, his fingers lightly enveloping his wrist and this thumb massaging a circle onto the back of his hand. He sat with Thomas, still worried and confused, whispering his apologies and concerns.

It is at that time that Alexander truly realized the situation. The paintings of the man and woman, Thomas as a young boy sitting among them, the strange and eerie emptiness of the manor — Thomas has been all alone for what seems like centuries, without a voice to speak because he wanted to find true love. He was the mute prince.

Alexander felt something stir in him; a sagaciousness that surged through his veins as he stood a little straighter at the revelation. He knew what it felt like to be alone, to be lost. When he was stranded upon a rooftop in the midst of a broiling hurricane, he saw the people of his island reach out to him as they got swept up in the crashing waves. He reached out, too, to grab them by their arms and pull them up to survival, but they were too far, and the rain was pouring so hard on him that his eyes stung, his vision was blurry, his clothes weighed him down and he could do nothing but watch the soul leave the body as it collided with a wall or the ground. After the hurricane wasn’t great, either. There were so many bodies, so many people. One man he saw on the street was sobbing at the foot of his house, which had seldom roof or walls, and contained one body, a woman. He walked further, and soon he found his own shambles of a house: his brother was gone, the food was gone, everything was gone. He crawled under the remains of the door and huddled in the tiny crook of the remains of two intersecting walls before help came. He could only imagine that feeling of loneliness, of fear, of lost hope… he could only imagine feeling that every day, for a decade. He would have gone mad.

He snapped out of his trance and grabbed Thomas’ wrists, pulled them from his eyes, and coiled his arms around his neck, flushing against his body as he tightly held him. “ _I’m here_ ,” said he, his hand lightly grazing the nape of his neck. He felt Thomas hiccup another sob and soon his arms were snaking around Alexander’s waist. “ _I’m here, and I won’t let you go_.”

Soon the embrace ended and they sat across from each other, and unlike all of the other silences they’ve shared, this one _was_ very awkward. Alexander opens his mouth, closes it, and then begins to speak.

“I know how it feels to be alone,” he begins, so caught up in his own thoughts that he forgets to translate it into French. He hopes that he is at least familiar with English and continues. “When I was ten, my father left my mother, brother, and I. My brother used to leave the house and come back in a day or two with some food or spare change. Then my mother died two years later; she and I got sick and she didn’t make it. The doctors blamed it on me, said that she was healing but her immune system was damaged, and the sickness I still had killed the rest of her. My brother blamed me, too, and left. Everybody in my life, up to the age of 19, has left me. But now I have Laurens and Mulligan and Lafayette, and I couldn’t ask for anything more. But you… you’ve been alone, torn from your family, and you’re still _here._ I can’t imagine how that must feel, I’m so sorry.”

“But I promise you, even if I have to stay here for the rest of my life, I will be with you,” Alexander promised. Thomas looked at him with rapt attention, tears still welling in his eyes, but he was smiling softly. Alexander smiled sheepishly, then smacked his head with his hand.

“ _Wait_ ,” he asked, feeling ignorant and rude, “ _I have been speaking in English this entire time without asking if you even spoke the language!_ ” Thomas gave him a surprised look, then breathed out a laugh as he signed, “ _Both_.”

Alexander laughed and leaned his head on Thomas’ shoulder. “Good, ‘cause I don’t think I have it in me to say it again.”

They both walked back to the living room, Alexander stopping by the library to grab the book he’d set aside earlier and sitting next to Thomas. Thomas looked at the book he was reading and raised an eyebrow, setting down his book and turning his body so that he was facing Alexander on the divan. He helped Alexander sign the words until there was a loud, frantic knock at the door. They both looked at each other before standing up and walking to the front door. Alexander opened the door to see Laurens at the front, shouting “ _See?! Somebody_ does _live here! It’s the…_ ”

Laurens looked at Hamilton with eyes wider than the moon. “Hamilton?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wtf is john doing somebody stop him


	7. we keep meeting/please look at me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, with one quick motion, it was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS CHAPTER SINCE THE BEGINNING
> 
> sorry this is waaaay shorter than the last chapters; this is the shortest chapter so far. my brother was hospitalized this week so i've been unable to write. also, more bad news, there's probably 1-2 more chapters left :'( but do not fear! they will be the best chapters ever! also, i'm starting a new work that's eliza/maria (because we need more f/f ships in this fandom) that will be up within this week or so! keep an eye out for it ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)
> 
> warning for this chapter: read the archive warnings!!

Hamilton broke into a splitting smile. “Laurens!” cried he, laughing as he was embraced tightly by his friend. Laurens laughed, too, but it sounded more anxious than normal; he was trembling slightly, and kept a part of his body leaning towards the bottom of the stairs. “What happened to you? You look terrible!”

Alexander looked behind him and saw a group of people; five men, six women, and Lafayette and Mulligan. The two were staring at him, Lafayette with an exasperated look and Mulligan a calculated one. The women, most of whom he does not remember meeting, all had some form of weapon or tool: a walking stick, a small knife, and, on one woman, a sword and a very sharp look. The five men included three merchants, all of whom had walking sticks and – Alexander wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream or cry – Frederick and his gangly henchman. Frederick wasn’t looking at him at the moment, but rather casting a weird look at the manor. He turned to Seabury, his chin high, and muttered something. Then was it that he looked at Hamilton, and seeing Thomas behind him, he looked angry. As he took a step towards Alexander automatically put his arm in front of Thomas and took a hostile step forwards.

“What are you doing here,” he asked again, staring not at Laurens but at Frederick.

Frederick casts a malevolent smile towards him. “Your friend has been screaming up and down the streets that the _mute prince_ – or _whatever_ – was alive and in the forest. So, naturally, we came: the merchants and guards and, of course, the head of security and police force of the town, Madame Lucienne Boyer.”

The woman, or head of police, nodded at her name and translated roughly to the people surrounding her, “ _Monsieur Laurens has informed us that one Alexander Hamilton is missing and that the mute prince is alive. We, of course, were skeptical regarding the prince, but nevertheless followed them into the woods because of your absence. From his descriptions, I would say you are…?_ ”

“ _I am he, Alexander Hamilton_ ,” he nodded, dazed. He stepped to the side to show Thomas, who was towering over him sheepishly. “ _And this is Thomas Jefferson, the owner of this residence_. _Please forgive him if he does not answer your questions, for he cannot speak_.”

“ _See_ ,” Laurens sputtered, casting a terrified smile to the people staring at either Thomas or him, “ _I wasn’t lying! I have seen no delusions!_ ”

Delusions? Alexander whipped his head to Laurens, who turned to him and whispered shakily, “They thought I was lying when I said I saw him. Lafayette and Mulligan told me not to, but it was already too late. Everyone knew. They threatened to send me to an asylum, they said I was deluded, but I never lied.” He placed his hand to his chest and looked seriously at Hamilton as he whispered, “Soldier’s honor.”

“Laurens, are you going to be-”

“You know, I fail to see how this _hut_ can be home to a _prince_ ,” Frederick spoke up, looking from the house to Thomas. “Are we even sure what they’re saying is correct, and if they are not plotting against us in some way?”

“I will look around the house for some details,” said Madame Boyer in her thick accent, her hand hovering above the handle of her sword in suspicion. “I will also talk with Monsieur Hamilton to find his intentions of becoming ‘missing.’ _Everyone, stay here_.”

They both made way for Madame Boyer to search the living room, Laurens trailing right behind her. Alexander grabbed Thomas’ hand and leads him out of the house. Thomas flinches, expecting their hands to break apart and Thomas’ body to rebound against the curse’ barrier that has kept him from leaving all of these years. But none of that happens; they walk through together hand-in-hand, going down the steps. Thomas’ heart begins to race — why isn’t he trapped in the house anymore? How can he leave? Nothing like this has ever happened in the ten years that he’s been here. Curious, he tries to speak. Nothing comes out. His shoulders slump and he steps down the stairs, when Alexander releases his hold on Thomas before running towards Mulligan and Lafayette with a joyous laugh. Mulligan grinned wide and embraced him tightly, lifting his body up in the air with his strength. Alexander complained and jokingly pounded on his back, earning a chuckle as he was set back down. Then Alexander went to Lafayette, who embraced him tenderly and softly. Alexander rubbed his back and let go, motioning for Thomas to come by.

They conversed quickly; Lafayette and Mulligan were worried sick, not just for Hamilton but for Laurens as well. He was always bad with his anxiety, but now he’s facing being sent to an asylum on false accusations because he told someone of his secrets. The two apologize to Thomas for the trouble and he waves a hand to dismiss it; he forgives them. Then, Lafayette hits Mulligan’s arm, swearing that he _knew_ they should have checked at Thomas’ manor. Mulligan counters that if he wasn’t here and they went there for nothing, it would have been fruitless.

“But it is not _fruitless_ , because he was here the entire time!” retorts Lafayette, heaving a great sigh. “What did you do to leave the house? What were you doing while we were gone?”

“Being a complete ass, if I do say so myself,” Frederick said behind the four. Hamilton bristled and felt his blood pressure raise as he spun on his heels. Frederick continued, “What were you doing when you were _gone?_ Now, that’s a question I’d like the answer to.”

“Get the hell out of here, Frederick,” Hamilton spat, “Why the hell are you here, anyways?”

The annoying man made a feigningly fond look. “Why, to see _you,_ of course! We ended our last encounter on a sour note, so I thought I could-”

“Sweet Jesus,” Hamilton said, rubbing his temples exasperatedly. “Can you not understand what _no_ or ‘I don’t fucking care _’_ means?”

Thomas, Mulligan, and Lafayette looked on in interest and anxiety.

“Look,” Frederick said, noticing the stares they were getting and feeling nervous himself, “Why don’t we have this conversation somewhere else?”

Then, as Alexander Hamilton would recall from hindsight, it all went to shit. Frederick had tried to place a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder to lead him away and possibly diffuse the situation, but Hamilton refused. He jerked his arm back, giving him a revolted look; this caused Frederick to get angry, grabbing Hamilton’s forearm tightly and nearly trying to drag him away. Hamilton reared his fist back to land a punch, but someone had already beat him to it, shoving him away from Hamilton and gently pulling him away. Looking up at the person, he saw that it was Thomas. Frederick, of course, did not like that, so he ran back for Hamilton and actually landed a blow on his shoulder, albeit a poorly executed one. Both Alexander and Thomas became offensive, and Lafayette and Mulligan had to contain their exertions by holding them back. Many of the merchants and guards began to back up or yell for order. Time began to speed up and slow at the same time, and Hamilton was acting before he was even consciously aware of the situation; Thomas broke out of Lafayette’s hold and his fist collided with Frederick’s jaw. Frederick pulled something from out of his cloak — short and sharp with a reflective surface. Alexander heard himself scream, and Thomas whipped his head around to look. Then Thomas’ body hunched, his eyes widened with pain and shock, and he stumbled before falling on the ground, his face whitening and the dark crimson of his blood dissipating through his white shirt. Frederick ran into the woods with his accomplice, dropping his short blade to the ground. Hamilton ripped himself from Mulligan’s grip and ran to him quickly.

“No, no _no_ …” He fell to his knees at Thomas’ body and scooped up his head, raising it up. Thomas drew in a shaky breath and felt his abdomen with trembling hands. “Thomas, please, look at me.”

He began to whisper to him, his words stumbling over themselves and his body rocking back and forth in terror. “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay… Remember that medical gauze in the bathroom? We could use some of that, heal you right up.” He began to sob, gripping the collar of Thomas’ shirt. “Please don’t die, Thomas, please. J-just take some deep breaths, it’s okay… We’re okay…”

Thomas took a deep breath and slowly brought his hand to Alexander’s face, the remnants of the blood on his hands mixing with Alexander’s tears. This only made him cry harder. Thomas’ eyes, too, filled with tears, and with a finality, he smiled and closed his eyes. He released a final exhale, and his hand went limp.

Alexander cried aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the people who don't record notes when u read classic literature: how
> 
> also: madame lucienne boyer is based off of - you guessed it - lucienne boyer (if you want to, you can listen to [one of her songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIAQWr34De0) here)!!


	8. lamentation/the candlestick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was going to tell him those sweet words, raw and unplanned as it were, whispered in the close atmosphere of Alexander and Thomas, Thomas and Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaAAAH SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG!! you might not know but i live in florida and i didn't have any power until tuesday and i've been going through a bunch of stuff with school and aaah!!! so busy!!! but i hope you like this chapter it is significantly longer than the last
> 
> also, like, _immediately_ after this fic is done, i'm going to post a new work (it's marliza so watch out f/f lovers)

The world seemed to mourn the death of love, of Thomas. As if it were magic, dark storms began to roll in, thunder bemoaned its somber apologies, lightning streaked down the sky like tears. Mother Nature cursed fate, cursed its cruel lessons. The killer was long gone, chased down by the guards, and the men around stood dumbly to the side as they watched the man on the ground grieved. Madame Boyer had ran out of the house with her sword raised, demanding to know what happened before she looked down and lowered her sword. Lafayette, with tears in his eyes, explained what happened, and she walked over to Alexander to comfort him before retracting her hand in reconsideration. Laurens ran out of the house, as well, though when he saw what happened he covered his mouth with his hand and went to Mulligan and Lafayette, nodding and sniffing as he was told of the events that occurred while he was gone. The crowd observed in hushed despondency as Alexander sobbed and cried, gripping Thomas’ shirt collar so tightly that his knuckles were pale with stress.

He was going to tell Thomas, back on the divan with his smooth, warm hands signing words for Alexander to sign back to him. They were first on opposite sides of the quaint settee, but they had slowly gravitated towards each other and were knee-to-knee. Alexander laughed as he fumbled on a sign, Thomas quickly moving his hands’ positions with his own. Thomas looked so beautiful; they had both bathed and changed their clothing, Alexander wearing a deep red shirt with similar trousers that went up near his midriff, and Thomas went for an eggshell or cream colored shirt with dark pants. He seemed to _glow_ in the candlelight, his hair casting a halo-like glow around him. He was going to tell him those sweet words, raw and unplanned as it were, whispered in the close atmosphere of Alexander and Thomas, Thomas and Alexander.

“I love you,” Alexander choked out, his cheek cupping Thomas’ rough jaw. Thoughts of Thomas lamented in his mind. “I love you. Damn it, _I loved you_ …”

In the empty, abandoned manor, up the stairs, to the left into the West Wing, last door to the right, a rose sat alone. It emitted a dim glow, too low to make any significant difference to diminish the shadows of the room but just enough to feel as if it did. The flower was weak, dying; most of its petals had fallen to the surface at the foot of the stem, some looking older than others. One of them, even, was browning and creased. There was one last petal on the flower, however, strong and vibrant in color but nonetheless faltered. It, too, began to detach itself slowly, like tearing paper. It’s already weak and beaten glow began to dim even further, and just when the petal was bracing to fall, the glass encasement shattered into a million pieces. The rose fell to the table’s surface and the fallen petals began to magically reform to the rose’s bud and it was raised back to its original position, floating effervescently above the table. It echoed a whisper, a litany: Alexander’s “ _I love you_.”

Thomas felt as if he was woke from a dreamless sleep. His skin flushed, his body began to heat up, and he felt the strangest sensation in his abdomen — the pain went almost immediately and his wound shrunk, disappeared. His shirt, matted with blood, commenced to dry and lighten. His ears began to focus. A small gasp from a couple of yards away pierced the atmosphere. Alexander was crying, shaking, muttering his apologies and whispering “I love you” between sobs. Thomas’ heart fluttered, and without thinking, he brought up his hand to cup Alexander’s cheek. Alexander gasped and he opened his eyes; Thomas’ head was turned up and Alexander was searching his face, his eyes widening and even a tear coming down and splashing on Thomas’ cheek.

Thomas thought that if he couldn’t speak now, he never could. He took a deep breath and, with a broken and unused voice, whispered “I love you, too.” Alexander felt Thomas’ hand grab the nape of his neck and he leaned in for a kiss all too excitedly — it was soft, slow, timid. The kiss was interrupted by whooping and hollering from behind them. Thomas inched his head back and looked behind Alexander’s shoulders; Laurens was making noises and hitting his fist in the air.

Thomas, laughing, weakly placed his hand on the ground to push himself up. With some help, he was standing tall, his air light and excited. He looked at Alexander and, after giving him a chaste and light kiss on the cheek, went with him to the others. Laurens was actually jumping, he was so excited— Mulligan slapped him on the back and asked how he was doing, and Lafayette was fawning over the two lovers, speaking with suppressed awe about true love and happiness. Alexander blushed, smacking Lafayette’s hand away sheepishly. Thomas only grinned and pulled him closer, as if all of this has given something of him that he’s never had. Madame Boyer pushed through in shock, asking what had happened while they were inspecting the house. Her arms fell from her sword once again and she sighed exasperatedly.

“All the same,” said she, “I am going to bring the merchants back to their homes. I suppose you were not lying, Monsieur Laurens.”

Once she left, Alexander nudged Thomas with his elbow before saying, “You know, you kind of look like Lafayette when you make that face.”

Thomas gave him a joking frown. “What face?”

“That one,” said he, pointing at Thomas’ frown.

Laurens nodded and the head of security left with the merchants, all asking in French what had happened, some even blessing the sky for the miracle they’d just witnessed. The group of five men turned to go back into the house, Laurens explaining what Madame Boyer was doing prior, when an unfamiliar person stepped out of the house elegiacally and blankly. Four of the men – Lafayette, Mulligan, Laurens, and Alexander – stiffened at the stranger, habits from the war kicking in as they grabbed at swords and muskets that weren’t there. Though the latter recognized him from somewhere, he figured it didn’t matter; it might as well have been one of the merchants, but he didn’t look like one and none of the merchants entered the house. The last and fifth man, Thomas, didn’t bristle at the sight of him, but instead widened his teary eyes and slapped his hand over his mouth.

“James!” he cried out, his voice unable to yell but still loud enough for the man to hear. The latter in question turned to Thomas and looked at him confusedly before widening his eyes as well.

“…Thomas?” he asked, unsure. Then, he laughed. “Oh my God, _Thomas!_ ”

The four men stood in shock as Thomas and James ran to each other, hugging each other in a brother-like embrace. Thomas released him from his grip and barked a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the man by his shoulders. Thomas exclaimed that it’s been years, James asked what had happened, and Thomas answered briefly. Alexander, as patient as he may be, began to feel a pang of jealousy before Thomas turned his head to look at him fondly.

“There’s some people I would love for you to meet,” said Thomas, pulling out of the embrace and moving James towards Lafayette, Laurens, Mulligan, and Alexander. “This is John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan, the marquis de La Fayette, and-”

“Alexander Hamilton,” said he, reaching out a hand to shake James’. “Great to meet you.”

“James Madison,” James replied coolly. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Thomas excused himself and Madison and walked him over to the porch, most likely to explain everything that happened. Laurens, Mulligan, Lafayette, and Alexander stood near the side of the house in comfortable silence. Lafayette sighed and leaned on Alexander.

“We missed you, you know,” said he, his tall frame lowered so that his left cheek pressed against Alexander’s shoulder.

“We did,” agreed Mulligan. He smiled. “Laurens cried when you didn’t come back the next day.”

Laurens punched him on the arm, sparing no feelings as he put as much weight into the swing without losing his balance or starting a fight. “Shut the hell up, I was worried!”

Alexander threw his head back and barked a laugh before earning a punch himself from Laurens, though certainly not as hard as Mulligan’s was. Alexander made a small noise and rubbed his arm melodramatically, which made Laurens laugh in turn.

“Come on, Hamilton, you were in the fucking war with us; you can’t handle a _punch_?” said Laurens jokingly, grabbing his shoulder. Lafayette tutted a laugh and stood straight, no longer on Alexander’s shoulder.

“You know I was never allowed to fight in the war, unless you count begging Congress to send supplies in persuasive letters ‘ _fighting_ ,’” retorted Alexander, rolling his eyes. He crossed his arms. “Washington practically had me on a _leash_ , that man.”

“You’re still on a leash, my dear Hamilton,” said Lafayette, using his teasing tone, “Thomas has you wrapped around his finger.”

Mulligan and Laurens laughed, causing Alexander to become tinted with blush. He made a passive gesture with his hand and said, “Oh, shut up, the three of you!” Alexander looked over to where Thomas was and found that he was looking right back, and he smiled widely without thinking twice. Thomas did the same. Laurens barked a laugh, then sobered up significantly.

“What the hell happens now?” said he as he unconsciously tapped his foot on the ground. Lafayette crossed his arms and shook his head, muttering that he didn’t know. Mulligan stood silent.

“Maybe,” Alexander suggested, “we could bring Thomas and James with us? Or stay here.”

“They _are_ a part of our lives now,” Lafayette supplied. “I would not mind staying anywhere, or leaving.”

“Me, neither,” gave Mulligan.

The four looked over to James and Thomas, both of whom had on a sad grimace. Near the front of the house, the two mourned over the loss of their family.

“Once the curse was bound to me, you, and the house, I… I never saw my parents again.” Thomas laughed bitterly and shook his head, rubbing his arms at the biting chill of the wind. James put his hand to Thomas’ shoulder and allowed him to continue. “I don’t know why they weren’t there with you. Granted, you were a candlestick, but why did they just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” was all James said. Then, “Are we going to stay here?”

Thomas thought for a moment. “No,” he finally decided, “I could sell the manor, go off somewhere else. Just not here.”

“Do those men know of a place? You could ask.”

Thomas sighed, rubbing his hand to his cheek. “I could.”

James slapped a hand to Thomas’ shoulder blade and limped over to the four men at the side of the manor, and was given an unexplainable expression from Lafayette. He started a conversation, and soon Alexander was pulled away by Thomas and nobody batted an eye. Thomas and Alexander went inside the manor, to the front lounge on one of the settees. Alexander, not understanding why they were away from the others but nevertheless drunk off of Thomas’s sweet-smelling scent, held his hand securely. Thomas massaged Alexander’s hand with his thumb.

“I don’t want to be here,” started Thomas, staring up at the chandelier adorned above them. Alexander, still confused, squeezed his hand lightly. Thomas continued. “I don’t want this house. It feels… I don’t… I feel _trapped_ here.”

Alexander nodded. “You can stay with me. We have a house in the town; it’s not too big, but it’s only for a while before we go back to America-”

Thomas shook his head, his face looking guilty. “You don’t have to do this for me-”

“But I _want_ to-“

“I don’t want to be a burden-”

“Thomas, _please_ , you could never be.” Before Thomas could interrupt again, Alexander laid his other hand on top of Thomas’. “My friends and I don’t mind at all — in fact, we’d _love_ to have you with us; and plus, now you can finally come with me to see America.” Alexander wore a soft smile.

“I was thinking about selling the house,” said Thomas as he looked back down at the rug below them. “Everything but the paintings.”

Alexander stared off into the distance, behind Thomas’ shoulder, before gasping and snapping his fingers. “ _That’s_ where I saw him from!”

Thomas frowned. “What?”

“James,” Alexander explained quickly, “I thought I saw him from somewhere.”

Thomas chuckled. “He worked for my parents, but he was practically family.”

Alexander made a noise of understanding and they both fell silent. Thomas leaned forwards and gave Alexander a small peck on the cheek, then one down at his jaw, up to his temple, the side of his eye, his forehead, then finally his lips. Alexander smiled widely and brought their hands vertically to entwine them, brought them back down, and kissed Thomas, but a little less chaste than last time. When they both ran out of breath, Alexander fell to Thomas’ neck and sighed blissfully.

Soon enough, James, Lafayette, Laurens, and Mulligan filed into the house, each in their own way exclaiming that they were tired. James said his politely, Lafayette matter-of-factly with an air of feigning gloom, Laurens with a bad-mannered groan, and Mulligan bluntly. Alexander and Thomas, who were still in the living room with another and agreed with the four men, standing to lead the way. They quickly ushered Mulligan and Laurens up the stairs, and they did so, and Lafayette looked up at them ascending the stairs with a frown. Alexander sensed his sadness and said that his and James’ rooms are downstairs, so that they wouldn’t strain their already impaired legs. James smiled gratefully and stuck his elbow out to Lafayette, who took it gracefully.

“Thomas, is my cane still in my quarters?” asked James, earning a nod from Thomas. “Great, because I have a spare; I would like to give it to Lafayette.”

Lafayette gasped lightly, placing a hand to his chest, “Oh, my dear James, you shouldn’t have to-”

“Please, I insist.” James left with Lafayette then, and Alexander and Thomas were left to scale up the stairs to their rooms. Alexander released his hand to turn into the guest room where he slept the night before, but Thomas quickly reached out and grabbed his wrist. Alexander turned to look at him and he wordlessly stepped back to him as he opened the door and motioned for Alexander to go in.

Alexander gasped as he entered the room. “This room is-”

“It was my father’s,” Thomas supplied, sitting down on the red and gold blanket. “Grab some clothing for bed, and we’ll sleep shortly.”

Alexander pulled out some clothes and clutched them to his chest, back facing Thomas. He looked over his shoulder and saw Thomas; he wasn’t eyeing him, but he seemed to acknowledge his presence in the room nevertheless. Alexander spoke awkwardly, “Am I allowed to… undress in front of you?”

Thomas looked at him and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, earlier this week you were a stranger, and now…” Alexander didn’t finish the sentence because he didn’t know how, and settled for making confusing hand gestures instead. “I don’t mind if you look, but…”

“I think,” started Thomas slowly, “this isn’t the place to do it. I mean, sure, it’ll happen but now… We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Thomas smiled warmly. “Now, hurry up; being dead wears you out.”

Alexander laughed, partly in relief that that awkward situation diffused so quickly, partly because he felt so dehydrated from all of the crying earlier that he didn’t think he could then, partly to appreciate Thomas’ jokes about his own demise. He turned back around and so did Thomas, respecting his privacy, as they both changed in the same room. Thomas finished before him, but only turned back around when he felt the bed dip beside him. Alexander crawled into bed with Thomas and blew out the candle on the nightstand, the room dimming with the moon casting shadows from the curtains. Alexander rolled to the side, meeting Thomas’ shoulder with his nose, and felt his heart melt when Thomas lazily wrapped an arm around his waist. Alexander placed an affectionate hand on Thomas’ chest and release one final sigh before the lull of sleep pulled him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISN'T THE END! i have more in store for these losers
> 
> EDIT: it's the one-month anniversary of my first fic, whaaaaaat?! i'm so proud it's grown so fast


	9. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander turned back quickly to him, his eyes already starting to tear up, he’s so nervous and frustrated. Automatically, Lafayette rushed to him, shushing him softly and redoing his tie. Alexander, may it be out of fear or veracity, whispered, “I’m about to cry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhha the summary makes it sound angsty but it really isn't if you don't count alex not being able to tie a tie angst
> 
> haha i'm updating this asap i want to finish up my first chapter for my new work and DAMN is it long

Last time Alexander heard the monotone of church bells tolling that loudly, he was back in Nevis at his mother’s burial. They couldn’t afford an actual funeral – whenever his brother was asked if he would like to buy flowers or a wreath or _anything_ for her, he’d get an angry yet saddened expression as he’d say that he spent all of their money on the casket, the dress she was wearing to be buried in, and their own suits – so it was just his brother and one of the men of the island who pitied them both as they dug into the ground for what seemed like years before lowering the casket in slowly, reverently. There was two other guests who attended their makeshift funeral: one woman, who knew Rachel as a friend though significantly older, and her husband, a large, old man who shook his head in sadness as the casket was finally lowered. Neither Alexander nor his brother cried, though the two guests hugged them and caressed their cheeks as if they were — but alone at the house, before the government came to whisk them away to another family member, Alexander remembers seeing his brother in the corner of the room, silently sobbing, curled up against his knees with shaking shoulders. The church, hearing of the devastating news from the old couple that attended, rang their bell for Rachel, for the children she left behind. The church was not close, but Alexander felt every ring in his bones as it hauntingly ended that clause of his life.

Now, bells clear and crisp, represented a brighter nature. The church bells were exonerated from their dismal tenor and Alexander, as a surprise to himself, smiled when he heard them. He spun happily to the mirror behind him, brought his hands up to his tie and fumbled to try and tighten it — he found that he was only making it worse, each dismal turn of his wrist complicating the mess even further. He sighed and brought his hands back down, shaking his head but not too much so that his hair would unravel. His hair was perfect, it _had_ to be perfect, otherwise the whole day will be ruined-

The door behind him opened, in stepped Lafayette cane first. Alexander still remembers when he woke up in the manor to see Lafayette using it; he looked infinitely blither, as the pain from leaning on his bad leg was relieved somewhat. James had on the biggest smile, as well, explaining to all that he has given him a new assistive cane to help his walking. But that was so long ago. Alexander turned back quickly to him, his eyes already starting to tear up, he’s so nervous and frustrated. Automatically, Lafayette rushed to him, shushing him softly and redoing his tie. Alexander, may it be out of fear or veracity, whispered, “I’m about to cry.”

Lafayette gave him a mix of an appalled and offended look. “You cannot do that. Not now. You can’t have your eyes red and puffy when your groom-to-be is saying, ‘I do!’” Lafayette went soft again, his eyes roaming across his suit to check for anything off, flattening it with his palms and tugging to make it just perfect. He smiled and shook his head amiably. “I still cannot believe it. You and Thomas… you are right for each other, and you both _deserve_ each other. I am so proud of the two of you.” Lafayette gave him a long, sweet hug before leaning back, fixing his suit again, and saying, “Now, go. Your escort is waiting for you.”

Alexander furrowed his brows. “Escort?”

“Yes,” replied Lafayette, twirling his wrist as thoughts began to translate in his mind. “The person who walks with you down the aisle?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be your _father?_ Isn’t that the traditional way? I don’t have a father, how does that work?”

Lafayette sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Alexander, same sex marriage was legalized in America a decade and a half ago and there are _still_ conservatives crawling up my ass because two members of the cabinet are in a relationship. This isn’t what you would call a very _traditional_ marriage.” Lafayette pushed a hand to Alexander’s back, pushing him towards the door while quickly balancing to an upright position with his cane. “Now, go outside and go with your _escort_ to the aisle entrance, and _go get married._ ”

Just the mere thought of marrying his true love brought a wide smile to Alexander’s face and a spark in his eye, and he gave Lafayette one last kiss on the cheek in gratuity before pushing the door with his back and turning to face-

“M-mister President,” Alexander stumbled as he met eyes with his ex-military general and current president of the United States of America. His boss, wearing the most fine-tailored suit he’s ever laid eyes on in his entire life, gave him a quick and small smile as he turned his torso to greet him silently. “Sir, I beg your pardon. Have you seen my… escort?”

Washington furrowed his brow and gave him a confused look before chuckling. “Son, _I_ am your escort.” Washington lifted his elbow to allow Alexander to loop his hand in.

Alexander blinked, dumbfounded, at his boss. “Wow. If I had a drink in my hand I would have spilled it right about now.”

Washington gave him an impatient face, something you only see if you _really_ know the man and _really_ piss him off. Washington handed him a bouquet of flowers to hold and Alexander began to brace himself. “Come on, son; just take my elbow.”

The organs in the room in front of them began to play and Alexander panicked, grabbing Washington’s elbow for his dear life. The doors opened, Alexander was almost blinded with how bright the church was, and Alexander felt himself shaking from his shoulders to his toes. Washington urged him forwards, showing a very rare, fond smile while facing forward.

Was Alexander getting cold feet? Did he need medical attention? Why was he shaking so fast his face was a blur? Was Alexander ready for marriage? He supposed those didn’t matter, because he was already making those steps towards the altar, Washington lowly whispering to _breathe, son._ Alexander looked up at the altar, the soft canopy made from what looked like thousands of flowers standing tall. Under the canopy, of course, was the reason Alexander was here in the first place — Thomas. Thomas Jefferson, the man he never knew a long time past, the man he met in uneasy circumstances, the man he knew was his true love. Alexander has never seen magic with his own eyes – no fairy godmother has blessed his well-being in any way – but he knew that this love, this hope, this _life_ with Thomas was a result of that. He knew that they had to meet, it didn’t matter what the circumstances are, they _had_ to; fate always has its ways. And, as fate has it, Alexander felt his knees go weak at the sight of Thomas. He reminded him like a tree at the time: strong and stable but with the appearance of something being bent by the wind, swift and free. His suit matched his, but his had a lapel flower on his left side, and a white handkerchief. He looked up at Thomas’ face, and it caught him completely off-guard. Thomas looked at him like he just hung the moon, the stars, the sun, _everything_ , and his jaw was slack as he ogled at Alexander walking down the runway. Did Alexander look the same? He must have, because Thomas looked stunning.

Alexander made it to the altar. Breathe. Thomas let out a soft breath, and for a second he thought he’d gone mute again. The minister nodded once at the two and said softly to them, “Hold each other’s hand.” They both raised their hands and clasped them together, Thomas bringing his shaking hands to Alexander’s. Their eyes never left the other’s and the minister cleared her throat to commence the matrimony.

“Today is a celebration: of love, of commitment, of friends becoming family, and of the two people who are in it for ever. We have come together – family, friends, those who fit in both categories – to witness Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson as they exchange their vows of marriage. This bond, a union made by fate and chance to make this love true, is now being venerated as an outward source rather than in the hearts of the dearly beloveds. In this ceremony, these two souls will become one, and we will have the privilege and the honor to spectate such a wonderful observance and we will all become one true family after this. We wish that you find yourselves in riches beyond the wealth of money or materialistic values — and that everything you do, you do together, and for another.”

“I will now ask for George and Martha Washington to rise, if you will-” the two raised from their seats, looking at the two with proud and affectionate smiles. Thomas and Alexander broke eye contact to give wide beams. “Since neither of our grooms have any parents, would the two of you like to surrogate?” The two laughed, but nodded their heads. “Amazing. I am asking because I want the two of you to give their blessings. I want you to say, ‘I give my blessing.’”

The Washingtons repeated the phrase and the minister clasped their hands together. Alexander threw a grateful glance to Washington and he smiled wider than Alexander’s ever seen. The minister continued. “Great! Now I want everyone else to rise with them-” the seated guests rose- “All of you who have come here today comprise this couple’s community. I invite you to promise your full-fledged support for these two grooms’ marriage, and to encourage them to support their aspirations and growth together in your own individual way, to help them achieve a lifetime of happiness and fulfillment. Please repeat after me: ‘So say we.’”

The crowd repeated and she continued on. “Now, let’s get on to the interesting part.” She turned to Thomas. “Do you, Thomas Jefferson, take this man to be your lawfully-wedded husband, through wealth and poverty, joy and sorrow, in sickness and in health?”

Thomas nodded as he said, “I do.”

She turned to Alexander. “And do you, Alexander Hamilton, take this man to be your husband, through the trials and tribulations in your life, may you never diverge to a separate path?”

“I do.”

The rest of the wedding was a blur. That being that Alexander could not see, his tears were in the way. Thomas, without thinking, raised his hand to wipe the tear away from his cheek, and Alexander’s heart just about burst right then and there. He realized that he wasn’t paying attention to the minister – poor pastor – and tried to tune into what they were saying. She asked for the rings to be handed to the grooms and that they be put on. Thomas cradled his smaller hands and Alexander stretched out his fingers for Thomas to fit the cool-to-the-touch ring. Thomas watched the golden band shine on Alexander’s hand for a moment before giving Alexander his hand, the metal slipping onto his left hand’s ring finger.

“I now pronounce you, by the power vested in me, grooms inseparable in holy matrimony. You may now kiss the husband.”

Alexander heard his own sharp intake of breath and their lips connected; they have kissed many times before, some more sensual than others, but this one felt like heaven on earth. Their noses bumped together but they couldn’t care less. Thomas wrapped his arms around Alexander and lifted him into the air, causing Alexander to shriek in surprise and laugh jovially as he was spun. When he came back down, he met eyes with Thomas, his Thomas, his _husband._

“We’re married,” Alexander whispered to Thomas as if he couldn’t believe it himself. He was dizzy with glee – partly because of that spin – but he didn’t care, and kissed his husband again just because he could.

* * *

 

“Alright, alright! That’s what I’m talking about!” said John Laurens as he held up his third glass of champagne. “Now, everyone- hold on a fucking minute, y’all, the man of honor needs to speak.” He held silence for a moment before adding, “And that’s me.”

Everybody’s eyes were on him and he began. “Now, let me throw my two cents in so that we can get back to the food and champagne and whatnot, but let me just say this: I don’t know why the hell I’m the man of honor.” The guests gave him strange looks and he continued. “My friendship with Alexander began in the military, when we were working with the French to bring back supplies that were greatly needed in the war – thanks, Lafayette – and you know what the first thing he said to me was? Well, he actually said, ‘your zipper’s down,’ but you know what was the _second_ thing he said to me? ‘There is a certain enthusiasm in liberty that makes human nature rise above itself, in the acts of bravery and heroism.’ And when he said that, I initially thought, ‘Get a load of this guy,’ but _man,_ has he proved me wrong! Alexander Hamilton will fight for what he wants – I’ve seen enough evidence of that myself – and he hasn’t stopped since he came to America to live the life he wanted to make for himself.” John looked at Alexander and raised his drink a little higher. “Raise a glass to our freedom, _your_ freedom; something they can never take away.”

“No matter what they tell you!” said Mulligan from a few seats down, standing up from his chair to raise his glass higher. Lafayette stood as well, raising his glass, and lastly Alexander. They all looked at one another and mimicked their glasses clinking. The rest of the guests raised their glasses as well, saying their cheers.

After the drinks, they danced.

Alexander gasped as the radio began to play the next song. It was the same song played years ago, back at the ballroom of the manor when they danced together. Before they knew of their fate, of their love. Alexander stood stone-still as the introductory instrumental played, and Thomas stopped dancing with whoever he was with and scooped up one of Alexander’s hands, and caressing his jaw with his other trembling hand.

“Do you remember this song?” asked Thomas, as if he didn’t replay that moment in his head for days, weeks.

Alexander breathed out a laugh, moving to rest his head in the nape of Thomas’ neck, the latter’s hand moving to Alexander’s back. He sighed. “I remember this song like I remember my name, my dearest.”

“And that dance? Do you remember it?” Alexander could hear that hint of uncertainty in Thomas’ voice, the slight doubt.

“How could I ever forget it?” Alexander kissed the skin his lips were nearest and silently reveled in the little shiver he emitted from Thomas. As the singer began to sing, they swayed along to the music, Alexander stepping back to be spun and the two coming back together, laughing and smiling and stealing kisses.

They didn’t realize that all of the dancers near them stopped to watch them, nor did they realize that they were the _only_ people dancing, and that everyone else around them was watching in awe. Except for Lafayette — he was crying into James’ shoulder, babbling about true love and destiny and fate. When the song finished, they certainly did not expect all of the guests to applaud them when they finished their dance, or for Lafayette to stumble into them and pinch their toes with his cane as he complained that no, he isn’t like this all the time, it’s just that the wine and champagne together get him emotional and he was already emotional at the time so it just made it worse. Nevertheless, when the wedding came to an end, Alexander and Thomas silently cradled another on the bed – their bed – as they repeated their full names in their minds like litanies: Alexander Jefferson-Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson-Hamilton.

“Well, why does _your_ name get to be first?” Alexander whined as he felt the fabric of Thomas’ shirt in between his fingers. “Why can’t it be Hamilton-Jefferson?”

“Hamilton-Jefferson doesn’t sound right,” said Thomas. “Jefferson-Hamilton has a better flow to it, I feel.”

“…So you hate my last name?”

“Lord in heaven, _no._ Do you know how ecstatic I am that I’m able to share a name with you? You are the love of my life, I don’t think I could hate anything you do seriously.”

Alexander gasped exaggeratedly. “So that means you don’t actually hate my financial plan?”

“Jesus,” Thomas groans, “Darlin’, you need to learn about something called _spelling_. I love you to the stars and back, but if I see you misspell Pennsylvania on another government document one more time, I’m going to resign.”

“Whatever.” Alexander tilted his chin up to kiss Thomas, and the latter responded almost immediately, working his tongue into Alexander’s mouth and making his _obscene_ groan that just makes Alexander feel like he’s seen the light. Alexander found himself under Thomas as he continued to kiss him, and couldn’t help but ask, “Aren’t we supposed to have sex tonight? As our honeymoon thing, or whatever it’s called?”

“Is that a demand, question, or suggestion?” replied Thomas, working his lips down to attach to Alexander’s neck. “Because I’m in favor of everything tonight.”

“Are you in favor of my financial plan?”

Thomas laughed — not a chuckle, but a cackle — and gave Alexander a quick kiss on the cheek. “Only if you can be my husband.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “But I am your husband.”

“I know.” Another peck on the lips, a silence, then, “I already signed the bill and asked my party to consider the same.”

Alexander squealed and wrapped his arms around Thomas’ neck, bringing him back down for a long kiss. As they broke apart, Alexander rubbed his nose against Thomas’, reveling in the light, feathery strokes Thomas’ eyelashes make across Alexander’s cheek. “I love you,” said Alexander, and it felt like it was his first time saying it; he never got tired of saying it, of reminding him that he loved him.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted the last part of this to end kind of light-hearted and fun but also sentimental and i think i did alright
> 
> but aaAAAAH IT'S OVER! one of my favorite works that i've ever had the honor to write has come to it's conclusion. but don't think my writing stops there! i have a marliza fic and a one-shot to my [other work](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7826296/chapters/17864836) that are pending upload! thank y'all so so so much for reading and spreading your love like you always do, much obliged ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> liek if u cri evrytim
> 
> OKAY EDIT: APPARENTLY SOMEONE SHOUTED ME OUT TO ONE OF MY FAVORITE ARTISTS AAAH THANK U!! IF UR READING THIS I LOVE YOU

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please let me know; you can comment anything you please, like a reaction or some constructive criticism. and, of course, if you see a grammatical error please keep in mind that this is not beta'd! i try to spell-check the best i can but sometimes it doesn't end well and i apologize. again, thank you!!
> 
> like this fic? be sure to check out Father_Time's [I'll Make a Man Out of You!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8044984/chapters/18427189)


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